schizophrenic thoughts

I call myself Rogue, even though that is not my name and the name means nothing to me. I call myself Rogue.

According to Merriam Webster rogue means: vagrant, tramp; a dishonest or worthless person, scoundrel; a mischievous person: scamp; a horse inclined to shirk or misbehave; an individual exhibiting a chance and unusual inferior biological behavior.

What folly is this you ask, that I should be able to call myself conveniently by any name and not give you my real one. That I should cheat you by not telling you my real name. What is in a name? I mean, the names on our birth certificates. It is simply a name our mother gave us while heedy from tranquilizers after giving birth. It is simply that name and the name of our father’s father. That name means nothing to us. It does not show who we are or what we are made of. That name is a lie.

My being Rogue requires too long a story to tell. Let me just tell you that once there was a girl, with long black locks and she looked for a prince, to unbrush the knots. But the prince she found tied her hair tight to a post and cut off the locks she loved the most. And so she was Rogue. A confusing tale isn’t it? But Rogue was victimized by her own dreams. Let us forget that and get on to other matters.

Have you ever noticed that the sweetest things are always the ones you can’t have? Drugs are so much better tasting when taken under the nose of a figure of Authority. Getting laid is so much better when you’re young and the threat of statutory rape hangs in the balance.

So the young do bad things and what difference am I? I’m just a young girl with dark hair and dark eyes. I don’t consume men with desire; I just play around the garden of mine.

I walk the halls of my school and wonder to myself…what happened to the youth of long ago, the ones who walked these halls before me? Did they grow up successful, satisfied and happy? Or did they wake up to smell the garbage and realize that their dreams of conquering the world were foolish illusions? Do I matter? Am I real? Do I really need this? Why should I waste my time in this life when eventually I am gonna die anyway? Heaven and Hell are so dogmatic.
What if there is no God? That would mean there is no life after death. If that were true what would all our sacrifices matter? Then that would make all our repressions worthless. We did not have sex and we never smoked, drugged or killed but what if there is no heaven? Then that would make our life worthless. We sacrificed for nothing.

I’m waxing theological and that is not good. But death disturbs me. Not death per se but what comes after it. What if nothing comes after death? What if we just disappear into nothing?
I don’t want to disappear into nothing with no good thoughts to keep me company. But if I were nothing, then for what would I need memories? Confusing isn’t it?

Anyway, let’s get back to Rogue. I’ve always wanted an audience. I’ve always wanted someone to talk with until the wee hours of the morning. I’ve always wanted someone I could talk to forever.

No one stayed long enough to talk forever. So I’d sit here in my garden and talk to myself. And when the grass feels lonely I’ll talk to them. And when butterflies perch on flowers to listen to me, I am very happy. But no one person ever stayed long enough to listen to me. Someone to forever talk.

People are all mixed up about me. They think because I speak like a grown up and dress like a grown up and act like a grown up, they think I’m a grown up. But I just play grow up. I’m just a little kid. I don’t ever wanna grow up; coz when you grow up, your heart dies.

I don’t think I’ll ever grow up, even when I’m 30 and with children, I’ll be laughing inside because I’d be fooling them. I’ll tell my children I’m really just a little kid like them and we’d laugh at the world for thinking that the years I’ve been on this earth would make me older.
They think that just because I act tough and play the bitch that I am the bitch. They don’t know I’m not that tough and I cry inside. They think that because I don’t shed tears I don’t cry. I cry deep inside, much deeper than the water could reach. I cry for what I am and for what I’m not. I cry because the world thinks I have to lose innocence to survive. But I keep my innocence; I cling to it like some holy cloth that can help me with my life. I act like I know about love and sex and life. I don’t know anything. I’m just a kid without anyone I can really hang on to. I know I have to be mean sometimes so I wouldn’t have to cry. But each time I hit, I get hurt inside. I cry and wail and scream and hide from the image of me that seems to get bigger each time. Each time I act adult and grown up, the little kid me dies inside.

How can I be such a fool to think that in fooling the world there wasn’t the risk of fooling myself? Now as I was thinking I was old enough to play grown up games I realize that I will get hurt again.

Is that the way things are? Try to leave before you get hurt and inflict pain to protect yourself? This world confuses me. This game I’ve entered confuses me. I run scared and fast so I wouldn’t have to think about killing myself.

This game I play provides momentary pleasure. But for the pain it’s worth I’m not so sure anymore. I want to ignore the pain and keep on laughing but as the tears roll down in between the laughter…this is too much.

I’d hate the man who’d make me shed tears, that I promised. And this man I hate the most because for some insane reason this man has made me love him when I knew I shouldn’t. It is insane of me to even dare to own him.

There, Rogue has shared her secret. It is a man that makes me feel the most. He made me feel my mortality and the pleasure of living. Love means death because when you are in love you feel all the pleasure which you know you cannot keep forever. You know you’re never gonna be this happy forever.

So we all die little deaths and the adult heart freezes over and protects itself. But my heart does not heal with time. It does not remember past lessons learned but keeps on stumbling upon these lessons. So I go on again and again and again giving all of myself and not leaving any for me. So I hurt and I stumble and I fall and I die over and over again. Without regard for age or sex or fate or destiny. I do what I want if it feels good to me even if it is against the rules or bad or wicked or mean. Sometimes I wish my life were different, but I think back on everything and change my mind. I would never alter any of my decisions given the chance. I would rather live a mere day of my life than live any other life which society dictates upon me.

So I go on with each day and try to live and survive. And each day of my life I wonder how long I’d have to hide. I wonder how long I can fool the world. Into thinking the grown up me is not a little girl.