Mind-blending genres

attached at the hip:

-fiction

my dear sweet rambunctious little shit.

Can never decipher reality without backing

out of it and being unbelievably vague.

-non-fiction

Depends on me for ideas of ruthless objectivity or none at all. Go ask your

father, you bastard.

-historical non-fiction

Tasteless. Absolutely boring unless it contains these 3 things:

+some mention of politics

+some mention of politics

+and some mention of politics

-cookbook

knows the love of edible nonsense.

Cute. Might be a pyromaniac, though.

-Children's books

-comic books/graphic novels

Dobeedobeedoodoo - POW! It's uneccessarily-overpowered-characters-and-unexpectedly-expected-sympathizable-villains guy!

-horror

Boo who tries to create fear with joy but

fails marvelously

-the rest

the children of the first two.

and I am the mother

as all my kin and offspring

grow up and turn their back on me.

Filling themselves with lies in the

shape of "controversial" cakes and

hatred consumed calories.

I brought them up to eat the greens

of truth, the fruits of knowledge, and

the meats of courage.

But I, the imaginative creativity of

nonexistent fools, reject them all.

In favor - aye.

The end.

My father and I drove

towards the junction.

He told me he loved me.

run away

His smile seemed stuck to his jaw:

Unhinged and sweet.

run away now

I felt cold. My blood was frozen.

I had a metallic taste in my mouthhole.

run away now, understand

The screech of the brakes. Stopped at

the van of a family.

run away now, understand why

The memories jogged back my way.

I looked at him.

He looked at me and winked.

A cavern was his mouth

as that metallic tasted came back to mine.

Metal.

The tug - unleashing.

There's light at the end of that tunnel now.

Two tunnels.

Painted an outstanding red

Of father and son

Of dead and done.

run away now, understand why never again

I remember him from my Philosophy class. That insane mustache of a man and his ideologies of such kind always made me curious.

And here Friedrich Nietzsche was, right in my own bedroom!

I had just woken up from a dream (I don't remember, so don't ask), and I opened my eyes, and there before me was the ghost of the German himself.

"What in the world are you doing here?" I asked as I sat up in my bed.

Mustachio stayed silent.

"I have to say, you are looking fantastic, considering that you've been dead for over a century." I teased.

Still nothing.

I waved my hand in front of his face. His cold eyes stayed consistently solemn and unflinching.

I stood up from my bed and began to walk behind him.

Suddenly, his head turned to me.

"You don't get it, do you?" He asked with a thick German accent (as expected).

"Get what?" I asked, still walking around his figure.

"You don't get it, do you?" He said once more.

I laughed. "Are you a broken record or something? What is 'it'?"

"You don't get it, DO you?" He said.

I froze. Something had clicked in my brain. I felt a shiver go down my spine.

Ever since I had joined my Philosophy Class, it felt like everything that had happened in my own life had no meaning. Being able to question the very foundations of reality itself was always meant to be a challenge. But when one suffers as I have, the questions just keep hitting you harder and harder until all you feel is a sense of numbness in the heart.

I remembered my mom. Her sweet-smelling hair and gentle smile always made my day that much brighter.

Gone.

I remembered my dad, his muscular build, and his 5 o'clock shadow. His jokes always embarrassed me in front of my friends.

Also gone.

My grandma, the one who had always had some kind of cookie to bake for me whenever I visited.

Gone as well.

I shook myself out of my thoughts enough to begin to notice that I was on the floor crying. I got up quickly and wiped my tears away. I knew what to say to the philosopher.

"I don't get it." My tongue and mouth went dry.

"What don't you get?" Nietzsche asked.

I had had enough. "What do you expect me to say??!! Life?? Happiness?? Sadness? Pain? Death? Reality? What does it matter to focus on those now when I have a literal ghost in my bedroom?"

"Look up."

I looked above me.

A rope was swinging above my head.

I felt light-headed.

"You don't get it because you never will," Nietzsche said.

"What do you mean I won't get it? Also, why is there a rope above me?" I asked curiously.

"Come to me," Nietzsche replied. He stretched out his arms unnaturally. He was somehow able to grab my shoulders and pull me in.

"What are you doing? Get your hands off me!" I screamed.

I heard the door open. My older sister peeked into the room.

"Ben, dinner's rea..." She stopped.

A breath's worth of silence before...

"BENNNNNNNN, NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

"Wait, why are you screaming I'm right..." I followed her as she sprinted to where I had been standing.

Or rather, where I was currently hanging.

I felt nothing.

No sadness.

No pain.

No empathy.

I turned my head back to Nietzsche who still had his arms on my shoulders.

Nietzche shook his head.

I realized... Nietzsche was no ghost.

Nietzsche was simply a memory.

I looked back at my sister. She had started resuscitating me. I knew it would be of no use.

Too little, too late.