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Date Posted: 00:38:18 06/02/15 Tue
Subject: Moments (S) Stop-motion literature
This is something I like to call stop-motion literature. It is just what the title says: Moments. Pictures in writing, if you will. It's basically a rough draft, and I'm curious what people will think of it. Let me know by replying, or sending me an email.
Pain. It is my first memory. I am two. It is the fourth of July. I am at a neighborís party celebrating with fireworks. ďJeffĒ the neighbor handed out fireworks to all us kids. I am too young to know any better. I wave my sparkler happily about in the air excitedly for a number of minutes. It burns out. I grab the smoldering end with my left hand. Searing pain consumes my consciousness. I will not be doing that again.
Excitement. I am going to the library with my mother. I canít wait to find a new ďpicture bookĒ about trucks, or boats, or planes. They are all that interest me. Taking the steps quickly, without awareness of their precise location, my poor coordination leads me to trip on the fourth step. I fall, face first, on to the steps. My chin makes striking contact with the edge of the top step. My flesh is split open. Blood and tears stream down my face.
Pain. Fear. Embarrassment.
I am brought to my pediatrician. I sit stoically while he stitches up my chin, without any anesthetic. The tears never stop, but I brave the pain. My mother complements me on being a brave little boy. I am not happy until I am bribed with ice cream treats.
Companionship. I am in kindergarten. ďDave,Ē the crippled boy that lives down the street from me, is my best friend. His wheelchair is cool. I help him get around when he needs it. We share laughs and jokes. His presence in my life is all too short.
Crush. My 2nd grade teacher reminds me of my mother. She is endlessly patient with a boy who is slow to pick up a lot of different subjects. I am that boy. She finds a pathway to my comprehension. I can spell almost any word now. She smells nice. I like my classmates. I want to marry my teacher when I grow up. The other kids are loud and distracting. Mrs. Bradley smells like chamomile and unconditional love.
Ugliness. I am in 3rd grade. My teacher scares me. My buck teeth are growing in. My plastic glasses make me look funny. I am taunted. Maths begin to evade my comprehension. I have no friends. I am feeling sad.
Shame. I am a bed wetter. I try to hold it through the night, vow to wake myself up in time. I fail. I am disgusted with myself. The smell is horrible, but the ever-so-brief warm, wet feeling feels delightful and comforting, before the cold, embarrassing realization that Iíve lost my battle again sets in. I am taunted. I am segregated.
Annoyance. My 4th grade teacherís voice is grating on my ears. She is a pushover. Her control of the classroom is lacking. I fall victim to the 10 year old predators. I am looked down upon.
Puberty. I enter younger than most. I feel weird. I am uncomfortable. I find I am waking up with sticky undies after funny dreams. I am confused. I have not wet the bed in two years. Something must be wrong with me. I canít get comfortable with a 5-inch steel rod in my pants. I am hard all the time. I worry people notice.
Sexuality. I am 13. It is night time. I am awake, and erect as usual. I have made several attempts before. ďJerking off,Ē it is called. I have not yet succeeded. I decide to give it another try. I throw back my covers, shimmy my briefs down to my ankles. I am naked. I love the feeling of freedom. My boyhood stands tall, pulsing with anticipation. I spit into my left hand, and begin rubbing my hardness. New pleasure sensations arise. I am in awe. I continue, slowly and lovingly. My skin is hot. Tingles everywhere. This is different. More stimulating. More exciting. Infinitely more pleasurable. I push further, faster, harder. A tingle begins, ever so subtle, in my young genitals. Without warning, the tingle increases exponentially. I am in awe. I stroke with excited anticipation. I bite my lip. Pant. Eyes roll back in my head. A fiery wave of pleasure spreads from my genitals to my legs and feet, chest, arms, and hands, head. Every bit of my flesh is consumed with sexual bliss. My young body can no longer contain the pending eruption, and I explode with the power of a thousand suns. My most private area spews a foreign, milky substance that somehow intensifies my ecstasy. I spasm once, twice, thrice, up to eight times as molten hot semen tracks across my stomach, chest, neck, face. I am covered in white goo. I see stars. I am overcome with indescribable bliss. I cry from the euphoric high. I am sweaty and spent. I regain my composure some time later, gazing at the proof of my fertility. I dab a finger into the milky, white substance, and bring it to my lips, stealing a taste of the foreign liquid. It tastes like an intimate part of my soul. The high is gone. I have recovered my composure. I feel empty. I yearn to feel the bliss of bringing myself over the edge again. I am addicted to self-love.
I am curious. I explore every inch of my body. I yearn to explore every inch of my peersí bodies. Some of whom I do. I steal glimpses of othersí intimate parts. I feel naughty. I am excited. I fantasize about them in my bedroom self-study sessions. My room begins to smell of sweat and semen on a regular basis. My hamper is full of crusty underwear.
I live dangerously. I touch myself in my bedroom. In the shower. On the bus. In class. In the lunchroom. In detention. There is no place I havenít brought myself to the pinnacle of pleasure.
I am lonely. I sit alone. I yearn for friends. I am teased. Taunted. Assaulted. Humiliated. I am stupid. Ugly. Fat. ďSmall.Ē Gay. I am inferior to my peers. I am depressed. I am trapped. I am desperate. I hate myself. I want to die. I ask God why he canít put me out of my misery.
I cut myself off from the world. I read alone. I surf the net alone. I eat alone. I study alone. I play alone. No one likes me. School is no longer important to me.
I ask for help. I plead for help. I beg for help. No one sees me. No one feels me. No one loves me. I am alone in my battle.
I drown myself in sorrowful music. I live it. The songs are written about me.
I am hopeless. I am helpless. I donít matter. My pain doesnít matter. My life doesnít matter. I want to die. I want someone to kill me. I want to kill myself.
I am numb. I donít think. I donít feel. Iím dead inside. I am a robot. I live without meaning. Without strength. Without happiness. Without love.
I creep towards healing.
My grades improve. I find some good in myself. I survive, barely.
I am angry. I donít deserve this. Others donít deserve this. I donít know how to cope. I donít ask for help.
I want to help. I reach out to others. I help take away their pain. I donít want others to feel like I do. It is hell. I try to heal with my words and my friendship. I am mildly successful.
I am growing up. A young man. My grades are better. I am stable, but still empty. I want to share my life with another. I cannot find another to share my life with. Another to pleasure. Another to love. I am floating through the void alone.
I am almost done with high school. I am excited. I am more confident. I have a couple of friends now. I am still unloved. I have learned a lot. I still have a lifetime of learning ahead of me.
I work a dead-end job. I am unimportant. I am underpaid. I am under-appreciated. Health problems set me back miles. I canít succeed. I will never amount to anything.
I am 25. I am at my wits end. I ask for help. Plead for help. Beg for help. I am in therapy. I am at war with my inner demons.
A big battle has been won. I donít know how. I donít know why. It just happened. I feel my inner self come alive again. I never thought I would see him again. I love him dearly. I cry tears of relief. I hug him tightly. I wish for him to never go away again.
I want to help people. I want to help kids. I want to take those terrible moments from their soul. I am happy to put them in mine, if it means they can suffer a momentís less agony. I want to have kids. I want to stay a kid. Forever.
I am getting better. I move inches forward. I wish I could move miles forward. I am miles behind my peers. I hate it.
I volunteer with kids. It is difficult. It is sad. It is happy. It is everything in between. I am proud. I am successful. I will not falter.
I have setbacks. I move one step forward. I move two steps back. I move three steps forward. I move two steps back. I move a step forward. I move a half-step forward.
I dream of a happy ending. I see a partner. I see kids. I see a family. I see love, unity, pride. I see heartache and heart-warmth.
I am surviving. I wish I were thriving. I am okay with slow, forward movement. I tolerate setbacks.
I am here. I am writing. I hope to touch othersí souls. I hope othersí souls touch me. I hope, I hope, I hope.
I am not done. I may never be done. I want to remember. I want to be remembered. I want to live. I want to love. I want to be loved. I will be remembered. I will live. I will love. I will be loved.
I hope this makes sense to you all, and I hope you like it.
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