I'm trapped in a space-travelling-time-cubicle! Or I'm dead. I'm not sure which. My friend wrote a story a year or so ago which I reread today. I hold it close to my heart (pronounce that like a French person—say: 'art—I'm not French, but I think it sounds more romantic and dramatic). After a sad day it warmed my 'art a little, but then I realised that I think she actually killed me off and that's why she hasn't written another story (it was part III in a series which spans a glorious 5 pages written over the last 5 years).
It's the best feeling in the world to have something one of a kind that was created just for me. I think it's also the only thing I have of that precise nature. I thought of it when I was looking at that picture of the little girl and her mutalisk plushie. What an incredible dad. Who else is going to have a mutalisk stuffed animal? It's so very special and the only way you can really show someone you love them and make them feel loved. It doesn't make you feel loved just to be fed or live with someone. In practical tasks and store bought gifts there is no emotion or certainty that you are loved. It's like a monetary exchange, always equivalent to how many hours you spent to earn the money that it cost, a thing which you hold someone accountable for and that no matter how much you call it a 'gift' it is really a number above your head that says I did this for you, now you do something of the same definable value for me.
I'm not making any complaint about Hallmark Holidays here. They are what they are: easily ignored and thoughtless. No more troublesome than someone linking you to a LOLCATS image (though with a little less paper wasted). All I want to say is that the lack of what I've spoken of is what's painful. To not know anyone in your family, to not know your friends. To not have any reason to believe someone has been thinking of you. To be non-existent outside your own mind. Do you know what I mean? You may work for 2 hours on a personal project for someone, or you may work the same amount of time at a job. But at a job you were focused on your job, not a person. You kept working because you have to, not because you want to. Maybe, like some cheesy Christmas movie the only reason you work is because you want to provide for someone and celebrate the joy of consumerism with a hard earned rock, or maybe it's exactly what it looks like: the routine of motions driven entirely by the only way you can survive in society.
In reflection, the only thing left unsaid seems to be the other side of the fence. How do people feel when I write them a personal story? Does it make them feel as special as I would? Or is it easily ignored, as indifferent as a Hallmark card, because they didn't want it from me. I don't know these things. I don't really know anything.
jrkirby United States. February 28 2012 12:32. Posts 530
I know that when ever someone has done something for me it always makes me feel special. Before I moved to my current town I was 700 miles away from the only people who I call "My Family". We all used to write music and sing songs together when i would come to visit. I was going through the worst time in my life, so far, and they wrote a song about me. The course was "I hope you're doing alright". And even talking about it now is almost bringing a tear to my eyes. If you want to do something special for someone, any art form, something that came from you just to them, they will always hold close to them.
3FFA United States. February 28 2012 12:47. Posts 2714
if someone wrote me a story, I'd treasure it infinitely more than a gift card. The same with pictures or songs or any gesture, really, that honestly felt as if they cared about me, rather than just fulfilling some obligatory gift exchange.
edit: and then I'd compulsively check their grammar and sentence structure, but I wouldn't tell them if they had errors because thats annoying
Last edit: 2012-02-28 16:10:12
Don't believe the florist when he tells you that the roses are free