The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

I'm 10 and I see this???

If it were really my choice, I would not be so overprotective of Lucien. I would allow him to keep secrets as long as they didn't cost him his health, and I would allow him to do as he pleases without hurting himself, and I would allow him to be left alone in the house without me worrying constantly about his safety, but as I said, that's only hypothetical. The truth is that I really don't have a choice, because my mind is both paranoid about my roommate and somewhat justified in that paranoia, as Lucien is weathering away quicker than anyone I've seen before, and it's not just a theory that's urging me towards that route of distress, for I now have evidence that I'm not being a hover parent just for the sake of being a hover parent, rather that I walked in on my roommate trying to hang himself with dress ties of all things, which is a clear indicator that he should not be left alone when the last time that occurred he was on the trail of death.

And though I promised myself never to abandon him when he needs help the most, backed by my paranoia's influence over my decisions, I have found myself wandering around the apartment again, like I did when I woke up on the first morning in Lucien's captivity, because he has found himself asleep on the boat of rest, which is something he deserves after a strenuous day of attempted suicide with unconventional tactics and near success, and while I realize that Lucien could rise at any time and continue with his thirst for death, I don't think he's energized enough to do so, and I can conjecture that by two o'clock in the afternoon his angelic face will still be nestled into the pillow with no hope of digging him out of it, so I should be safe to meander through the piles of clutter Lucien has amassed over the years.

I have no goal in mind, having devoted my thoughts solely to worrying about Lucien, an activity that will surely inject premature wrinkles onto a face that looks old enough to be thirty when I'm seven years younger, so I am able to choose whatever I want to choose, as there are so many intriguing curios scattered across the carpet and furniture of an unkempt hovel awaiting the talons of the Homeowners Association, though at some times they're a bit overwhelming to an intermittent neat freak like me. However, the last time I was wandering around the apartment was the time where I cleaned up, and cleaning has never been a diminisher of my stress unless the stress originated from how cluttered a space is, and I've become lazy without my article writing on a blog that's overflowing with comments I never want to check, so cleaning will not be my forte this morning, which may partially be attributed to the fact that I haven't chugged any coffee yet and have decided that a natural awakening by surprise should be a suitable alternative to a suckerpunch of caffeine.

As Lucien preaches endlessly, granting yourself a free ride around life with no determined destination is much more fun than strictly scheduling your life in a way that has mechanically confined how broad your life could be, and everyone knows how much Lucien loves to broaden his life, a doctrine that has developed into the spontaneity I used to adore but the spontaneity that is wracking my brain with fear this week, but I shouldn't be focused on him while I'm weaving through the apartment, because that's just limiting my life, and he would also hate for me to be overly concerned with his every move when it feels as though I'm always watching him, so I return to my search for something stimulating.

There's nothing here that catches my eye like a clue highlighted with blinding glimmers in a video game, just as there was nothing when I scoured the place for the first time, only kisses of memories dotting the room that mean a lot to Lucien but nothing to me and have been dulled to monotony in my perception, but it's not like everything in life will simply call out to me, meaning I have to reach out and explore items with trial and error the most prominent tools in my work belt.

I select a pile at the back of the room, where both the secrets and the accidental victims of elbow pushing hide amidst the cobwebs and the oblivion, ushered into the dark, into the core of one's mental vault where only a drill could reach them, and I can detect from the start that this will be a interesting pile, judging from the material comprising it, polaroids and letters and printed photographs that I can deduce are from a while back with their sunspots and fading and fragility, oddly like human skin depicting the lives of those humans in documents prone to misinterpretation by those who have not wept at their significance as they flake with age and chug farther away from the memories, and I understand that viewing these documents makes me no better than fallacious theater students narrating a play about someone whose ambitions they know not, but I can't be bothered to give a shit anymore when everything is on the line, now can I?