Rain Over the Forest

One day I will die, and I will no longer exist in any way. My body will not exist, my mind will not exist, my hopes and feelings and angers and will will not exist. I will be obliterated from existent. I will not see black. I will not see anything. I will not feel fear or longing or sadness, because I will not feel anything. I will not bemoan my banishment to the void, because I will not bemoan anything, I will not regret or fear or hate or love or experience joy or sadness or pleasure. I will no longer exist. I will be utterly, irrefutably, and immutably destroyed.

And this does not trouble me. Because there is one thing I can leave behind. One thing that can live forever. My thoughts, my stories, my music, my characters, these things are said to be fanciful wastes of time, distractions from my real life. But in truth, my stories and my imagination are the only part of myself that can continue to exist. If i think back in my life, what I love most, what matters the most to me, are the stories in my mind, the moments of happiness and despair that I can capture and put down. And if I can leave behind these, I will still exist.

I don’t create to fight death, because death will be there waiting for me. Death does not come after us, it waits for us. And death will be a calm and beautiful embrace, I will relax and relax and relax until I am nothing but peaceful and eternal rest. I will no longer be troubled, no longer fear, and I will no longer have need for joy or love, because I will have reached a nirvana far greater than any heaven. I will be at peace forever and ever, and my peace will never be disturbed. And my stories can touch others if I leave them behind.

I can take comfort in knowing that no one in the history of all the world can say they know what happens beyond death, not just because I know they’d be lying if they did, but because deep down we all know the same thing: we are going to die. And that is not tragic, nor is it sorrowful, it is beautiful. Death is a hope for an eternal sleep, in death the evil and the righteous are made equal, and every one is given peace from the labors of life. Death is not a cloaked shadow to be feared, nor a pit of endless darkness. Death is the moment when you fall asleep and give over to the sweet ecstasy of relaxation, death is the feeling of all pain being relieved, death is the cure of all malady and fear and trouble.

Death is a reward for one patient enough to wade through the waters of life, beautiful and bright, murky and stagnant. We live and we love, we enjoy the pleasures of being, and then we relax, we rest forever. There is nothing here to be feared.

Must Be Dreaming

I don’t feel entirely alive today.

There have always been days like this. They vary in severity as far as the melancholy goes. Today is a light-melancholy day.

It has always been this way.

Maybe it has to do with how much I’ve always loved rain. Rain is melancholy, but it’s something that makes me feel safe.

I have diabetes. I’m not as bothered by it now as I was a month ago when I found out, but it’s something I have to keep in mind now. I can’t eat as many of the things that I used to. Although that isn’t always because of the diabetes, it’s as much because of the lack of money.

I’ve been adopted again. And this time my adopter’s have kept me for eight months. I’ve been adopted before. In the end the adopter’s always get tired of me and make me leave. But this time it’s my fault. These two have done everything they can for me. I’m not mad at them. And they haven’t told me I have to leave. But the fact is I need to come up with money, and it’s hard to do. I don’t know why it’s hard to do. Maybe because everything is hard for me.

I shouldn’t have left the first good full-time job I ever had. But I did. And it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting it back. So now I have to rough it. I still have a chance to make things right here. My current job gives me about fifteen hours a week which is nothing, but I can make double that by putting in hours at another store in the area that’s about an hour away. I don’t know if this will destroy my car or suck up all my money in gas, or what… I just don’t know.

In many ways I’m doing better. My surge of determination last week made it possible for me to have a better perspective and more positive attitude about my job. In truth, it isn’t too bad. I guess the fact is that it’s work, and work just isn’t going to be fun. It’s been fun in the past, but maybe not every job has the potential to be truly enjoyable. It’s okay, I’ll find a way to get through it. There are advantages. I just have to look for them.

But I won’t lie, working has always been hard for me. To suspend my existence so that I can go do something I’m not interested in for a large portion of every day, it feels like torture. It’s hard to remain positive, to retain a sense of who I am that way.

I went for a walk today. Well in truth I went to buy pizza and when I felt guilty for eating something gluttonous and unhealthy, I needed to go walk it off so I wouldn’t feel completely useless.

I’ve found myself listening to Frou Frou and Imogen Heap today. I always love Frou Frou. It takes me somewhere else.

I spent a lot of time on the walk thinking about where I’ve been. The people I’ve loved.

What a life it’s been, you know?

Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time is to write a farewell letter. Like, if I were on my deathbed, what I would say, how I would reflect on everything, what I’d learned, what I’d felt. Kind of like a suicide note without the suicide. I haven’t felt suicidal in a while now. But I do like to reflect on everything. I guess the thing is, now that I don’t want to die I’m afraid of losing life. That is how the world is, you only get the things you want when you don’t want them anymore, and you only get hurt when you aren’t afraid of being hurt. I don’t know if it’s confirmation bias or karma or just a sick sense of balance in the universe that has to keep everyone continually moving up or downhill, or else standing in one spot.

I came to write because I knew I should. I want to write, it makes me happy to write. But most days I feel that I can’t properly say what I want. So today it’s disjointed and fumbled.

I used to fantasize about having a mother. I do have a mother, but I hate her, so I fantasized about being somewhere and being loved. I love watching the Osbourne’s and I would fantasize about being adopted into their family, with Sharon Osbourne as my mother. Roseanne was another mother figure to me, at least I think she was, but I might just be borrowing from Sara Gilbert calling Roseanne her TV mom. But whether I thought about it at the time or not, Roseanne did feel like my mother figure. And there were others.

I was brought out a period of flat suppression of all emotion and creativity by Imogen Heap. Today as I listened to Shh, I imagined that she had adopted me. I was living in her house, holding her daughter and singing to her as Frou Frou played over the speakers. I played her piano while she made dinner.

Now that I’m an adult, saying things like this makes me sound creepy. If an eighteen year old fantasizes about being adopted by one of his idols and having a family with a mother figure who means something to him, well, people are sympathetic. They think that kid must have been through some bad stuff, he must be lonely, he must want a functional and nurturing family. But when a twenty-six year old says it doesn’t sound so sweet, it sounds like the behavior of a stalker. I guess it’s fine if someone reading that I fantasized about being adopted by a musical idol thinks I’m a stalker, I know I’m not and I don’t have to justify my thoughts to anyone. Of course if I really thought that I wouldn’t have written this paragraph.

Look at that, a thousand words.

I used to listen to A Thousand Words from Final Fantasy X-2 alone in my bedroom, and I used to think about Koji.

I’ve never talked about Koji, have I?

It’s such a long story, and frankly I feel like this whole blog post is reading like the diary of a serial killer or a suicide note.

Ah well.

I only know how to express myself the way I can. I can’t apologize for that. My voice is the only thing I have.

Maybe the story isn’t so long, but it’s complex. When I was twelve years old (it was the summer after seventh grade, so I was either twelve or thirteen, I’m not sure), I fell in love with a character from an anime, the fourth season of Digimon, a character named Koji Minamoto. I used to like watching the transformation sequences when they turned into Digimon because their clothes all ripped off, and that was the closest thing I had to a real sexual experience, seeing these characters naked, particularly the main character Takuya who I found the most attractive, but for some reason it was Koji I fell for. What happened is that I was masturbating one day, the way I masturbated back then was to rub my cock into my bedsheets, so I did that, my face buried in the pillow, and I sort of began to fall asleep and half-dream while I was doing this, and I fantasized about myself and Koji, in this cave by a fire, and we were having sex.

And I was happy, and we were in love, and I was able to hold someone else close to me and touch them and fuck them and feel loved and safe. And so, I accidentally dreamed this person, Koji of my fantasy, into existance. And he began to come back when I masturbated, he’d be there in my fantasy, and I would talk to him, and he was with me even when I wasn’t masturbating, and I thought of him, and I roleplayed stories of our adventures outside all by myself, and I wrote fiction about us together.

Then one day I realized I needed to let Koji go, so I left him in this desert, this place in my mind where I took us, a place where I could leave him and move on, and he wasn’t angry at me for letting him go. But I let him go. And after that, he was gone. I tried to bring him back again later, went back to the desert in my mind and I would bring him back but then I’d realize he wasn’t really back, it was an image of him I was creating in my mind. An imaginary reflection of an imaginary character.

I really felt loss for Koji. I carried him all the way into high school, and by this point I’d begun to give the time when I met him certain names. I referred to the time period as Seventh Grade Summer, and then I began to call it Paradise. I would think about the time I was with Koji, when I was all by myself that summer, watching TV shows and writing Final Fantasy fanfiction and reading and just enjoying myself, and I called it Paradise. Things changed though, when my mother bought me an incredibly nice bedroom suit that was so big and fancy it would barely all fit into my room, but I was incredibly angry at her for changing the layout of my room, because I had all these emotions attached to my memory of Koji and of Seventh Grade Summer, and changing the room changed everything. I was incredibly mad at her which she didn’t understand, and looking back on it I feel sorry for upsetting her so much. I did a lot of things then that were cruel, but it was in response to the cruel and angry way she was treating me.

When I fell in love for the first time with a boy when I was fifteen, I eventually told him about Koji. He actually tried to tell my mom once about Koji because she was mad at me for something or other, and he was trying to help her understand, but he never got to tell the story.

There are so many stories. Michael, the boy I loved when I was fifteen. Koji, the imaginary lover. The times I spent alone. I spent so much time alone. With my video games and my TV shows and my movies and my imagination. It’s all I had.

And now here I am. A different person in a different world. And I love Robert and Zack. I love them and I just want to make them happy. And I want to be safe here, to know this is my home. So I have to keep working. I’ll just keep trying, that’s what I keep telling myself. I’m not always strong. In fact I’m just not a strong person in general. But I’m trying.

This is all probably because I didn’t take my medicine on time today. I mean, I have melancholy days anyway and I had them before I started taking medicine, but still, that’s probably what led to this.

I hope tomorrow is better.

I feel so scared, and so alone. I feel like I’m on the brink of being made to leave Robert and Zack. It isn’t because they’ve done anything unreasonable, either. I just… I don’t want to go. This is my home and my family now. I can’t leave it. I can’t lose another family.

I just can’t keep losing everything. Every person I love goes away. Every person I trust betrays me. Robert and Zack have not betrayed me, I’ve betrayed them. And I just want things to be right. I feel that awful feeling when you’re about to break up with someone you love and you don’t want to but you have to. And I DON’T want to go, but I have this cruel feeling that no matter what I try, I’ll be ripped away from them, only to miss them as much as I miss my boyfriend who I broke up with two years ago now.

I’m scared. And I don’t know where I am or who I am or what living is.