The Catalysts

I was always told that if I followed my heart I could never actually do anything wrong. Well that was nice in theory, but sometimes your heart is the most vile part of your entire body, and all it does is fuck everything up. We grow up assuming that everything we do is going to lead toward the best of outcomes, this may be true for some people, people who have the ability to always come out smelling like roses. As children we don’t really know what things are considered right and wrong, only what our parents or elders etch out as a moral code. My code was shot to hell from the beginning, and no matter how many ways you look at everything I have done I cant blame all of it on my upbringing. They will say that I should have known better, that to endebt my life to people who would later be some of the most significant people in the world — no matter that they are still rather unknown — was an idiotic choice. When you’re young power can be a hell of a drug. Everything we do will inevitably tip the scales for one side or another, and many of us signed on for this job when we were barely old enough to tie our own damn shoes. Keep to the shadows, and carry out the missions. That was the way things are supposed to be done. Don’t ask questions, follow the directive and claim your payment. Sometimes we would have to kill, other times we would infiltrate an organization in order to bring it to its knees. Some people call us mercenaries…. we call ourselves The Catalysts.

I rose quickly through the ranks and became the Catalyst Queen. People would never know my face, but my name was spoken everywhere, and usually in hushed tones. Funny enough, I thought that this meant I had finally found my place in the world. Maybe I thought being feared meant I had garnered that respect that all Catalysts craved. How wrong I was. Not only did no one know who I really was… but people seemed to sense that there was something off about me. Maybe it was the stench of a well placed secret that would soon begin the next war, or perhaps the lingering aroma of power.

(Story idea perhaps…. or just a little light musing)

Thoughts from Inside the English Building…

Bright orange bricks that have seen too much sun…. perhaps they were once a bright red like all the others that litter the campus, but that’s the point right? Age is a beautiful thing when we think about colleges. We want that aged look on these buildings.

I count two windows that are propped open to let in the chill of that winter air, or maybe to displace the feeling of claustrophobia that can overcome a person once they are trapped in this place for too long. That feeling of not being able to leave, and no matter how far forward you seem to move there will always be a cloying stench of failure wrapping itself tightly around the throat, skin blanched from the need to dispel the grotesque mass lodged there.

One lone bench. Separated from all the other  offered seating and resting carelessly in a corner. At first look, you would suspect there to be the feeling of lives unlived. Two windows rest on either side. This bench can see all that is happening at all times, constantly being a part of the scenery while never having to interact with the main story. One could get lost in a book and still have the noise of others surrounding them, never letting a person get too caught up in their words and losing touch with reality.

Snow. It is winter, just after the snow storm that only happens every 3 or so years. Massive rocks, covered in moss are now sporting a new covering of soft white. They appear to look like turtles who have been covered in a map. Perhaps this is what people think of when imaging the Isle of Tortuga. That large turtle that supposedly supports all of the world upon its back. Even the one sitting right outside the glass panels of the wall I stare through seems to be of a turtle design. Unintentional I am sure. What if that is what we look like to others in the cosmos? Nothing more than a bright patch of white snow splattered haphazardly across a rock.

In total, the entire picture is one of beauty. A serene scape that only occurs once in a lifetime.. perhaps in ever. Never will the snow fall in precisely that same pattern, and I will never be here to capture the life that exists in even the most seemingly lifeless tableus. Leaves are dancing, enjoying the wind that has allowed them the chance to do a final dance before laying peacefully on the ground in order to make way for those that will be born in a few months time. True beauty is found here…..

A little piece of my literacy narrative….

The ability to master the elusive arts of reading and writing in the English language are things that today are openly viewed as rather trivial pursuits in light of all the other qualifications needed within the workforce, but being literate is not be taken lightly. These words that I write would be completely meaningless to someone who did not comprehend the basics of language or possess the ability to take in the many useless symbols we know as letters and decode the message they are meant to convey. What a sad fate it would be to have a life in which these symbols were left to do little more than taunt the onlooker with a message they could not understand.

I am constantly told to just ‘get over’ everything that bothers me, but that’s not always the simplest thing to do. They just don’t understand that you can’t come around quickly when the person you decided complimented your personality the most goes after another girl who is ten times as pretty as you will ever look on your best day. The unfortunate part for me is that I can’t even hate her. She’s that sort of girl who is nice to everyone and nothing really negative can be said about her.

Sure, all of this stuff is probably nothing more than melodramatic crap that my mind is stringing together as a defensive mechanism in order to make the reality of it all seem that much more intense, but my heart doesn’t understand that the way my brain does. It still hurts. My heart still feels as if it were broken and I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs at times when I see them together. Eventually, my heart will mend the tear that has occurred, just as others have done from the same sort of pain… it… it just might take me some time.

‘Get over it,’ you say?

No.

I refuse to suppress the hurt that I feel. To feel heartache is to know that one is human, that one is capable of getting so close to another human being that they can actually get hurt by them. Maybe this feeling could have matured into ‘love’… ah, but who really understands the term ‘love’ anyway? It is nothing more than a fickle word used much too often in our daily lives to actually mean anything by itself. Perhaps it serves its purpose as a fickle word for a fickle emotion such as that of ‘love’.

All I can say for sure is that my heart will recover and move on, but a spot shall always be his….