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Shredder2

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About Shredder2

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    Brat
  • Birthday 02/28/1995

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  • Gender Male

Shredder2's Activity

  1. Shredder2 added a comment on a blog entry Poem...   

    This is beyond beautiful. *wipes tear from eye*

    *bows down to Sonia*
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  2. Shredder2 added a blog entry in Rezified   

    A Ghost Named Emily


    A Ghost Named Emily



    By Anthony Romero


    I watched the movers climb back into their truck and reversed out of my driveway. Once they drove down the street and out of sight, I was no longer a man who needed assistance with moving in to his new home; I was a man who was alone in his living room, secluded with his own thoughts and memories. I turned away from the window and stared at the stacks of memories trapped inside the cardboard boxes, waiting to be relived by no one else but me.


    I dragged my feet over the wooden floor and watched my shadow; it did not look frightened, anxious, embarrassed, or insecure at all—not in the way that I am. It looked quite happy—happy to know that as long as the fireplace is still burning bright during the night, it will exist. Then it will die once the daylight breaks in through the windows only until the sun sets a and the moon and stars arise to dimly illuminate the night sky once again; then that will be the moment when I rekindle the fireplace again, to bring my shadow back to life.


    Ever since the tragedies I’ve witnessed before my eyes, my shadow seemed to be the only person I talk to. Most of the time, I don’t pay attention to what I say to him, but I do know that I talk to him; he’s the only one who listens to me. And I knew that I’d end up talking to him once again as I started to dig through the boxes.


    The first box I touched with my cold and fragile hands was on top of one stack next to the fireplace and was labeled on one of the sides with a word written in bold, black Sharpie: “PICTURES.” I lifted the box with ease—it should not have been labeled “PICTURES” at all; it should have been labeled “FEATHERS” instead.


    I lay the box of feathers down on the wooden floor and positioned myself on my knees. I felt like a little kid on Christmas again, waiting to open the box to see what was in the box. I looked down at the short and rectangular box. My shadow looked down with me. I reached my hands to the flaps atop of the box and folded them outwards. It must’ve been Christmas again, because I was disappointed with the sight of what I saw—framed pictures were in substitution of the feathers that I had anticipated to throw in the fire. I reluctantly picked up one framed picture; it was when my parents and I were standing in front of the snake pit at the zoo when I was only six. My mom, my dad, and myself… We were all so happy, smiling for that frozen moment. Now we’re not smiling anymore.


    I sobbed as I gripped the picture tight; I knew that this was something I could not throw in the fire. Why should I? I could sense my shadow mourning with me as I was hugging the picture, embracing that moment. I wiped my forearm across my teary eyes as I sniffled, finally feeling the heat radiate from the fireplace. I placed the picture back into the box and closed it, listening to the crackles and pops coming from the fireplace in front of me and watched it burn precariously. I needed to get away from the memories for a few, so I stood up and walked down the hall and into my bedroom.


    My shadow died the moment I walked out of the light of the fireplace as it hid away into the pitch-blackness of the hall. At that moment, something convinced me that I was alone this whole time. I sat on the edge of my bed, mulling over life. Then I heard sobbing coming through the crack below the door; it sounded feminine, young and innocent and frightened all at the same time.


    I looked around my room in darkness for any possible source; it wasn’t my shadow crying—that much is for certain as it wasn’t anywhere to be found. Then I wiped my eyes once more to make sure that I wasn’t the one sobbing without realizing it. I’ve finally convinced myself that I’ve gone insane as the crying wasn’t coming from anyone or anything or anywhere and that it was only coming from the abyss of my absent mind.


    I managed to maintain my composure and stood up at once and sluggishly circled around my bedroom in pitch-blackness, hoping that the sobs from the unknown would just go away. Then I abruptly stopped pacing. Is it gone now? I thought. No… It’s still here. That damned cry for help was still audible to my deaf ears. At least there was something that wasn’t making the moment sound so depressingly silent.


    As I crept up to the doorway, I could hear the cry gradually grow louder and louder. I stuck my head out of the doorway and looked left and right down the hall; it was rather quite dark. I could’ve been blind this whole time and I still wouldn’t have mistaken myself that a presence accompanied me—and it wasn’t my shadow’s presence I was feeling either. I clumsily felt the wall for the light switch. The moment I flicked the lights on was also the moment I was hoping my eyes were deceiving me; she was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, her elbows rested on her knees as her arms were folded. She cried into them as her weeps echoed down the hall. She definitely wasn’t there the first time I walked down the hall…


    I stood there flabbergasted and frozen; as if I were posing for a sculptor as I was staring at her. Her pale skin complimented the rays of light bouncing off her skin and her face was buried in her lap. Her wavy brown hair draped over all sides of her head the way drapes would over blinds and windows.


    I reached a hand out for her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, but failed as my hand went through her. I quickly pulled my hand out of the specter and stared at her, bewildered. For that moment, it felt as if I was reaching to grab something out of the freezer.


    She wistfully lifted her head and looked at me. She looked at me as if she were waiting for me to have the first word of our encounter. I gazed at her, feeling the words freeze in my throat, as I was too shell-shocked to even speak a peep. I didn’t know what to say. Should a word even need to be spoken? I thought. She sniffled as she wiped her face with her hands. At last, she spoke, in a frail voice: “I want to start over.”


    Finally, I was no longer hearing the voice of the deceased; I was hearing the voice of a weakling that still had an ounce of life left in her. Finally, I found the words to say. I said: “Me too.” Finally, I was no longer talking with a stranger; I was talking with a long-lost friend. Finally, I could comprehend the pain that was pouring out of her eyes; the pain that was sounding from her mouth like a fire alarm; I could feel her pain radiating like heat from the fireplace.


    I knelt down in front of her as she was still sitting against the wall and looked at her dead in her hazel eyes.

    “Why are you here?” she asked as she sniffled once more, finishing her question.

    I laughed the question away with warmth. “I live here now,” I said with a slight grin.

    She crossed her legs, unfolded her arms; she seemed to have finally found joy in the conversation.

    “Why are you here?” I asked at once.

    “I need to start over.” She paused and sighed. Then she continued, shaking her head: “I want to start over. I just want to start everything over. The last thing I remembered doing was writing a note—a note to my friends and family, that is. Then I rattled the orange bottle once more and poured out the remainder its contents in my hand… and then, as I could feel the contents traveling down my throat, I just thought to myself that everything is just water and it will go down smoothly. Next thing I knew, I found myself floating above my body—I was looking down on myself, lying on the floor with an empty bottle and a bottle cap next to it. Then I saw my mom rushing in; she was crying so loud. She yelled ‘Danny, Danny, come quick! Look at what our poor Emily did to herself!’”

    She paused and looked down on the floor. Then she wiped her eyes again and continued once more: “I want to start over… I want to start over.”

    “Why?”

    “You’d have to live my life to know why. Besides, I’m dead to you.”

    “But you’re not dead to me; I can see you still breathing.”

    “But can you feel my pulse?”

    “No… I couldn’t even touch you.”

    “I want to start over. I want to know what it’s like to feel the touch of a human being again… I want to start over.”

    “I want to start over, too, but can’t. I’m living here all by myself because life happened—I’m still wondering if life is still happening or if it’s already over for me. I wish certain things never happened to me—and them—and also I wish I can redo certain things, but can’t. It’s hard enough for me to live with the tragedies that I’ve witnessed before my eyes and the mistakes that I’ve made in the past; and now it’s even harder for just to get through the day. However, something tells me that if I continue breathing, I’ll live to see another day. I don’t know what will happen in that very next day, but I sure as hell will never trade the world for it. If I can do that, so can you; I still see some life left in you and I know you can pull through somehow.”

    “That’s the thing; you never knew me.”


    © Anthony Romero, 2013

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  3. Shredder2 added a post in a topic Cussing on the trilogy   

    It didn't sound strained when I was listening to "Fuck Time."


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  4. Shredder2 added a comment on a blog entry BJ (Porcelain Eyes)   

    I second this. It's so... well... I can't find a stronger word than "beautiful."
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  5. Shredder2 added a post in a topic Your favorite Green Day lyric   

    Fuck it, I'm posting up the whole lyrics to "Who Wrote Holden Caulfield?":

    "A thought burst in my head and I need to tell you
    It's news that I for thought Was it just a dream that happened long ago? I think that I just forgot Well it hasn't been the first time And it sure does drive me mad There's a boy who fogs his world and now he's getting lazy There's no motivation and frustration makes him crazy He makes a plan to take a stand but always ends up sitting. Someone help him up or he's gonna end up quitting I shuffle through my mind To see if I can find The words I left behind Was it just a dream that happened long ago? Oh well... Never mind. Well it hasn't been the first time And it sure does drive me mad" This is among the only songs that I'll ever tell myself "Damn, I wish I wrote that song." It's almost as if the song was written for me because I could relate to it in so many ways and the way I interpret the lyrics... it just speaks to me so loud and clear. So many thoughts burst in my head that I need to tell a certain someone. And yes, most of it just feels like a dream that happened long ago and I don't want to forget. It sure does drive me mad sometimes... Edit: I know it couldn't be a whole verse. xD
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  6. Shredder2 added a post in a topic Do The People In Your Life Like GD?   

    My friend who is drawing up the cover for my novel loves Green Day just as much as I do! He's awesome.
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  7. Shredder2 added a comment on a blog entry Don't Give Up On Me   

    I love it!

    I must ask, is the "dearly beloved" bit inspired by Green Day in some way?
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  8. Shredder2 added a comment on a blog entry "By the Bay" - Feedback   

    I loved "By the Bay". I think you should post more of your writings here!

    then again, I need to do more of such myself.
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  9. Shredder2 added a post in a topic Green Day in Rolling Stone Best Live Acts Today   

    It's Rolling Stone. :/

    THAT, itself, is the problem.
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  10. Shredder2 added a post in a topic Songs that grew on you   

    "Rusty James" had to grow on me a lot. Now I LOVE IT!!!
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  11. Shredder2 added a post in a topic The first time you saw Green Day live   

    August 19, 2005

    Who could ask for a better first concert?
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  12. Shredder2 added a post in a topic Lyrics That Still Make No Sense to You   

    No unless he means to dance under the darkness? I dunno. That's the only reasonable idea I can come up with.


    Actually, I like the lyrics to Missing You. xD It reminds me of when I was writing childish poems and lyrics.
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  13. Shredder2 added a post in a topic Recurring Themes or Ideas in Green Day's Works   

    Well, I've been getting this impression that the theme for certain songs have been kind of like a "Fuck you" to certain people. xD

    i might be wrong though *shrugs*
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  14. Shredder2 added a comment on a blog entry "The Bird of Paradise"   

    I'm glad that you enjoyed reading it.


    Thank you so much. This is probably my most personal piece, so yeah... It means something.
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  15. Shredder2 added a post in a topic Green Day songs in which title doesn't appear in the song   

    "Homecoming" if the line "We're coming home again" doesn't count.

    "80"
    "Private Ale"
    "One for the Razorbacks"


    That's all I know for now.
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