Repression. Repetition. Fake smile. Small talk. Day in, day out, we ignore our emotions and try to keep them in. At least, that's what I do until I am confronted or I listen to classical music. There is just something about the purity and the clarity of the different keys, notes, and chords working in harmony to convey emotions that we are taught to repress and forget. Emotions that eat us up inside and makes us sick. We live in a society where it is encouraged to be determined and like minded but anger, fear, sadness, are left out
Sorry means absolutely nothing when someone breaks your heart. They can apologize, try to turn it all around but it's impossible to fix. In fact, sorry seems almost like an easy way out. It's like saying sorry that the truth came out or that your pain was too inconvenient. It hurts so much to hear those words during the aftermath. For me, it would have been so much easier to have lied the rest of my life with a lie. I may have broken his heart, but there was no need for him to intentionally break mine in return. Knowing that he hurt me in the worst way possible ruins the idea that he was the amazing guy I thought he was. I wanted to move on with my life thinking I had lost something amazing. I never wanted to know that he never thought I was. That hurt worst than the rest. I would rather hear him screaming insults at me than to tell me the truth of what he did. At least with criticism, I knew he cared. But when cheating, I knew he didn't.
Sometimes people lie, to save others. I don't think that is completely alright, but I understand why they do it. Sometimes it isn't even about saving your reputation; sometimes it is simply saving them from the truth because it can hurt. The truth can tear someone apart in an instant, and it can pull the life out of them in just one sentence.
Betsy Stogerpan swept her hand across the table top and stopped. "Don't look at me like that, Arthur T Warrenbrood."
Arthur Warrenbrood shrugged and dropped his sunglasses down off his forehead onto the bridge of his nose.
"You're drunk, Betsy. Take a chill."
"I'll tell you when I'm drunk. I'm sober. I'm so sober my molecules are starting to atrophy."
There was a silence. An airplane flew overhead with a banner. It didn't say anything. It was just white.
"Must be disappearing ink," Arthur said, pointing up to the sky.
"You're sober, Warrenbrood. Take a drink."
In our third session Bob confessed his attraction to ottomans. Specifically ottomans made of velvet.
"What is it that turns you on, Bob?"
"Velvet ottomans," he said. "
He exhaled and slouched. "They make me feel big, and they are really soft."
"What is it," I folded my notebook closed and leaned towards him, "that makes you desire to feel big?"
He sneezed and said, "My mother was a third string trumpeter for her high school marching band. She blew her trumpet, but not well enough, apparently."
I shrugged. "What does that have to do with ottomans? And feeling big?"
"My powerlessness over velvet ottomans really blows," he said, and looked out the open window.