Fragile

Full Pen, Empty Heart.

Monday, 10th of June. 6:30 a.m.

It is always a good idea to arrive early in school. With or without reason, this was Jack's rule: if you do arrive early in school, you have enough time to contemplate whether to slack off and laze around, or to study. Since it was a school that was not known for having good standards, Jack mostly chose the former. It was the first day of school for 12th grade, so his classes start at 9 o'clock in the morning.

Not a single soul was on campus this early in the morning. The atmosphere was silent, save for the gentle rustling of the leaves of the mango trees due to the warm after-summer breeze. Jack sat on a brown, wooden bench that was located on the school's backyard. He sat there for quite a while, devoid of emotion and thoughts about anything. He was just an empty soul taking in the scenery, unconsciously hoping that something-anything-would fill him, that something would inspire him to start working on his plan for his teacher.

There it was. The fact that he was alone as of the moment was enough to give him a push. Inspiration, or whatever he wanted to call it, gave him enough willpower to open his big, black backpack which was sitting right beside him on the bench, the only company he had. Inside the bag was just a single object: a new notebook that he had received as a prize from essay-writing contests.

For no apparent reason, he mumbled to himself as he slowly flipped through the pages of the notebook. It was a simple notebook; it was black and gold in color, with black being the dominant color. The gold color was the text written in detailed cursive, in the front of the notebook, which read "Create."

"It's...empty, huh. Well, I guess it's telling me to start now. Perhaps, I will. Or at least, I'll try." Jack pulled out a pen from his right pocket and carefully examined the insides. The tube of ink was still full of the dark, black liquid.

"What the hell do I write, though? Essay, or poetry. Essay or poetry. Essay or poetry. Essay or poetry..." He trailed off, lost in conflicting thoughts between the two choices. If he started through poetry first, it would be the most obvious thing, but an essay...

"Poetry is nice and romantic and all, yeah, but I don't have the balls to do that. Yet. Who am I kidding, I'm just some boy with...not-so-normal- interests... and besides, I guess essays are a nice introduction."

After a few minutes of contemplating, he decided to pick essay. Although, it ended being more of a mess. It turned into words without form, words with meaning, but meanings that are hard to grasp. Words that one can shout out of frustration. He went to the very first page of the notebook, set it on his lap, and he began to write.

Why is it that such cruel things like love and attraction are glorified? If only, if only I could kiss without giving-losing-a shred of heart. If only I could touch without loving. Love and lust, both are pleasing, both are painful. What, then, should I choose? Is it really a big deal to like someone who is not the same as you, with regards to such things as age or nature?

There's a reason why I like my teacher. She teaches History. History involves the past, and the past is what I would long for when everything was normal. She was the living embodiment of my principles, and the many simple, little things that I liked. Someone I could hold, if given the chance. Someone I could look at, talk to, someone I can touch, if given the chance.

I am tired of most girls, especially those who are of the same age as me. There are times, so many times, when I have perverse thoughts, but when it comes down to it, when I do end up falling for someone, those thoughts are gone, and I am no liar. My feelings are true. I am someone who is attracted to purity despite my perverse nature. One smile from her, and I am convinced that I have seen an angel.

But who am I? What am I? Is this what most people would call a "phase"? If it indeed is, why does it last so long? Must I always fall for the things that will break me the most? Is it always like that? Why must we love that which hurts the most?

Jack's hands shook violently as he wrote the last line of whatever people would call that painful narrative to himself. He did not know that writing, the only way he could express himself,would cost him a sliver of soul every time he did it. It was painful. He took a deep breath, and looked at his pen.

Hours passed, and the first day of school ended. The students did not do much, except writing schedules down for that day. Jack sat on the same bench he was on when he wrote. He took out his pen and looked at it again.

It was still full, but his heart remained empty.