"You see, Jack," she said while she tapped her cigarette ash into the ashtray. "The reasons why people are afraid to get close to you is simple."
"Uh-huh," I replied. "Well what is it?"
"It's kinda hard to elaborate, really," she continued while giving me her luscious look while she let the whitish smoke out in between her shiny, red lips. "But let's just say you're just an animal."
* * *
I have been speculating.
Many of the people I met constantly told me that some of them were afraid of me when they first acknowledge my existence, and that it took them quite some time to take chances and be relatively close to me by means of communicating, and that too required them quite a handful amount of thoughts and self-arguments. I can name a few who are close to me now and were not previously due to this cause, and somewhat are still experiencing the nerve-breaking fear whenever I communicate with them.
This of course has cost me quite some time of thoughts and speculations. The big question is, 'why are you afraid of me?'. The long hours of thinking had cost me my own breakdown from the ass-slapping nervousness and the inability of me to come out with answers. I therefore concluded that the answers can only be obtained from those who actually caused the question to surface in the first place. This means that I have to find out the answer(s) to this question from them - the people who are afraid of me - myself.
A number of reasons were therefore given by them, ad-hoc, after being forced to undergo a certain arrangement of torture and psychological distress, both conducted and supervised by none other than me myself, for they at first were reluctant to answer and had to be specially-treated before they came out with answers to the specific question mentioned above:
1) I look brutal;
2) My words look brutal;
3) My words and I look brutal; and
3) The idea of my words and I look brutal looks brutal.
So the main issue here are the brutality of me, my words, and the idea of the latter both.
This of course, again, had caused me to resort into my bed all day and night long to think of what exactly did they mean by that. Another question arose: 'How could possibly my words and I, and the idea that the both, are brutal?'. Following a series of mind-blasting thoughts, starvations, nicotine poisoning, caffeine poisoning and a number of mild heart attacks later, I found out that there could possibly be a number of explanations behind 'how could possibly my words and I, and the idea that the both, are brutal'. And these are my speculations on just how exactly my words and I, and the idea that the both, are brutal:
1) My Facial Expression - this could be a reason why people marked me as brutal (though I deeply believe what they mean was 'unfriendly'). I don't often smile, which of course supported the argument that those who do not smile are most probably unfriendly. The reason why I do not smile often is simple: I often am at the 'other world'. This other world is my mind, where usually there will be a lot of things in it, ranging from the most serious like 'why does an electron passes two slits and creates interference at sub-particle level?' down to the most fancy like 'what does it feel wearing a G-string?'.
And since most of my energy is spent in my mind like money being spent during Malaysia Shopping Carnival at every year end, I most of the time get too carried away and as a result abandoned my physical being, hence not smiling, waving my hands while walking, walking or even worst, breathing. And this causes what appears to be my brutal look. Sincerely, I do not look nice when I am not smiling, or do I?
2) My Killer Words - Yes, I do admit that I do have certain skills when it comes to word skills, and thank you God for it, though at times I happened to have been abusing them freely by will. Large vocabulary and the ability to manipulate sentences earned me the skills in writing, and has since favored me quite a lot of satisfactions. As much as my words may appear lovely, charming, handsome and inspiring whatsoever, there were too times when they have appeared to be rather demotivating and full of negativities.
And this could be the cause why people have been avoiding to communicate with me, for the fear of being criticized (I am a big critic myself) and put down to the bottom of motivation by my words, should they say something that can trigger my bombardment strategies. I can be an absolute arse at times, and for that I am truly sorry.
3) Both My Face and My Words - What a combo isn't it? Both are elaborated above, so no comment on this one, except 'too bad'.
As far as I am concerned and realized just how awful I look when I was not smiling, I just can't help it. God made me this way and when He did there was no catalog or anything where I could choose from - perhaps a square-face with thick jawline and maybe a pair of hazel eyes or something - so all I could do was to just shut up and take it. But I do smile at certain occasions up to a point where my friends got too concerned that they were all in full agreement that I was possessed, for they were too familiar with me not smiling than the otherwise. But the point is, I do smile. Just look at the picture at the top of this blog.
And don't worry much about my words. Though at times they were heavily offensive, I do not mind to offend anyone in particular. If my words hit you then too bad, yo. As I previously stressed to you that I do not write for the masses for popularity whatsoever, but to express my points of view in things daily, and to satisfy my hunger for writing. As to touch on the communication side, well unless you piss me off, I don't normally attack anyone for no particular reason, except for adults who refuse to grow up and Justin Bieber. Hey Bieber you're reading this,
man sis? I'm gonna FUCKING get you one day, you hear me?
As to conclude, I am not as brutal as you may have speculated. It is encouraged that you take a step further and get to know me by means of communicating. That way we can exchange views and thoughts in thing more easily, and perhaps the experience will give you better perceptions to what exactly I am.
* * *
"An animal?" I asked her.
"Yes," she replied contently. "You're this exotic animal that deserves to only be kept in a cage while you are alive and soon in a jar when you die, for the crowd to look at and admire, to examine and to have opinions about, but not tot be closely petted nor romantically loved. You're just a circus freak."
I was seriously stunned.
"But..." she continued after a while; she killed her cigarette in the ashtray and smiled pleasantly at me. "...despite whosoever you are, I still am madly in love with you."