“It is but a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

Oh, what great words to hear in times of great need!

How inspiriting, how valuable,
How stupid.

How unimpressive to call the blades of the butchery temporary?

The anxieties that cannot be talked out and away,

The depression that cannot be cut away,

The bipolar emotional rollercoaster that you cannot pill-pop away without feeling worse than the skeletons that lay buried in the closet of this factory labeled failed experiments,

Boney hands still clutching dreams that will never be brought out to light.

 

Whilst some blades are made of wax that melts under the heat of a conversation and pill,

Others are of poisonous lead and iron, tainting your blood as it spills it on the plastic covered floor.

 

I do not wish to sound rude,

But bluntness seems hard to come by as you dance around the puddles,

Holding a match up to wax and metal as if both will simply bow out of the way to the gently waving flame of a few kind words.

 

Long term solutions seem founded as you let the match die every night and take leave as if there is no night shift and as if under the lights of Artemis’s moon,

Wounds aren’t still being made and red life does not reach the ground to the beat of the songs we play to drown our own screams,

Begging for rope or taking your little pills again and again and again.

 

I would hate to sound sardonic, but golly gee, I can already hear the protests of those pure-hearted and slow-minded folk all screaming in unison that it always makes a difference somewhere.

I shall answer them as kindly as always.

 

Did it help the boy who sought help from his guidance counselor for his high school troubles? How a simple rumor spiraled into people fancying him mad and how now even his teachers look at him funny?

How about his supposed friends left him when he needed them most?

Did a simple word of ‘this problem is temporary’ alleviate his broken heart as the counselor tells him ‘aren’t you glad we talked it out?’ as if that will erase the harassment to him along cracked plaster hallways and long standing electronic pathways?

How the counselor seems so proud of herself, thinking her job done, when she doesn’t check on him nor even look at his face again until the fated grouping of black-clad figures mourning missed opportunities that as they always say, are so easily preventable.

 

And especially, with people sharing everything online and nothing online ever disappearing, the same as the scars decorating the wrists of too many of us.

Oh don’t worry, it’s probably just as temporary as the eyeliner of the girl who told him to die in a fire over twitter.

As temporary as the food her boyfriend ate as he told the departed ‘die already, no one will miss you anyway’.

As short-lasting, as the faked grief, of a teacher who told her friends in thought to be unheard whispers that she thought her student was just ‘not right in the head’.

 

I know it helps the girl who sees friends in places no other can witness nor reach, hearing whispers none are worthy enough to understand.

The girl who has to choose between people calling her crazy and a medicine that makes her feel as inspiring as one would be looking blank wall with only invisible paints.

A girl who took her doctor’s advice of the medicine being what she needs to get through life, not accepting herself the way she is, voices or not, not learning how to deal with the bullies, not learning how to love herself and others even if they may not deserve her heart that was so big long ago.

She follows her advice and takes her dose. 12 times over.

 

‘Temporary problems’ indeed these always are. Tell the next grave in line that.

The next asylum patient who cannot have bedsheets lest they end up in undesireable places.

The latest ‘insanity defense’ who thinks there’s nothing left for them here.

Definitely the girl so scared of the people that await her outside her front door she can’t even visit her mother, cringing and shuddering at the thought of leaving the safety of her home.

That one friend who always whispers to empty air when they think no one is watching.

All of them thank you for your inspiring as ever words, we’ll be sure to remember them as we buy our next chair and electrical wire.

 

Of course, the girl, angry at the world for its idiocies and atrocities whilst mourning its loss, angry as herself for being unable to stop it, can only stand, dreams in hand as she counts her breaths mentally as to not lose herself in the eyes that watch her.

I thank you.

For without idiots of the world, none would be able to appear intelligent.

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