Friend

Suicide is tempting because peace is tempting. There are moments where you feel you would give absolutely anything not to feel so much pain and fear anymore. To just be at peace. To finally go to sleep and rest. Some days it’s hard to resist that temptation.

I’m trying. I’m trying to stay alive because I believe there is more for me to do here, and that I will find hope one day. But some days it’s very hard. It’s hard not to welcome death a kind friend and go to sleep.

Hope: A Welcome To Night Vale Fan Episode

If you haven’t heard of Welcome to Night Vale, it’s a podcast that tells the story of a creepy desert town where Lovecraftian horrors exist alongside everyday people, and the madness that ensues. It’s normally told through radio broadcasts, narrated by the voice of Night Vale, radio presenter Cecil Palmer. While listening to several episodes, I was really amused by a lot of the humour, and just started writing down some notes for jokes of my own that I thought would fit into an episode, and before I knew it I had a brief little fan episode written out. So I thought I’d share it with you. Enjoy!


Roses are red. Violets are red. Red is everywhere. Everything is red and there is no going back.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Good mourning Night Vale. Good morning to you, and to all the other mourners in the procession of mourning. Mourning is a good thing. Only through mourning can we heal and grow and find the strength to live.

City council has announced that the ancient temple on the outskirts of town, hidden deep and unreachable within a cluster of trees whose oaken trunks are older perhaps than time itself, will be demolished to make way for a parking lot. The parking lot will not be attached to any businesses or attractions, and will also be unreachable. As always, any attempts to park cars in a parking lot will remain illegal.

Wednesday is currently lost. Because of this absence of a day of the week, a time vortex has opened in the town square, which threatens to engulf the entire town. The sheriff’s secret police have promised a reward for the safe return of Wednesday, or any information leading to the recapture of Wednesday. Remember that if you find Wednesday, it is be to returned to the sheriff’s secret police alive, or else you will be unable to claim the bounty, and the time vortex will consume us all.

The body shop is offering a two for one sale for a limited time. Any body you purchase will come with a second body of equal or lesser value.

The Night Vale PTA bake sale has raised just a hair over $300. Really. The bake sale brought in $300 and a long stand of hair. Dark hair. Hair that looks suspiciously like the dark hair of that girl you met in college. You know the one. You shared an intimate night together and forgot to get one another’s names, and the next day you saw her on the front page of the school paper, momentarily excited to learn her name before you realized that the story was about an annual memorial for a girl who had been hit by a bus years before, and who you discovered had in fact lived in your very dorm room.

The bake sale continue tomorrow, but city council would like to remind you that there will be metal detectors. Anyone found to contain traces of common bodily metals will be detained indefinitely.

Listeners, I don’t often talk about the details of my personal life, being a radio professional and all, but since Carlos vanished into a desert otherworld, he’s only been able to communicate by occasional phone calls, or by drips of strange blue liquid, leaking from my ceiling, landing on the kitchen floor in rhythmic drops resembling Morse code. And frankly, I’m feeling a bit down about the whole thing. With Valentine’s day just around the corner, I know that many listeners will be feeling lonely as well. After all, Valentine’s day can be difficult for those of us with significant others, as we are required each Valentine’s day to sacrifice whoever or whatever it is we love most in the world to the creature in Grove Park, only to have them returned to us the next day, changed in unspeakable ways. But this year I won’t be able to make my offering, because the person about whom I care most is currently trapped in a desert otherworld.

I crawl into bed at night, look over to my nightstand where, amongst my collection of antique doll heads and bone-hewn knives from the Before Times, sits the stethoscope that Carlos gave me on our anniversary. I myself don’t quite understand how to use a stethoscope, after all who has the time to bother learning how to properly throw stones at passing birds with a stethoscope, as is customary in science, but I always enjoy listening to Carlos explain it to me. Sometimes it’s nice just to hear his silky voice, even if I don’t understand what he’s saying. Carlos, if you’re listening to this broadcast, know that I miss you, and I eagerly await your next coded message, dropping in blue rivulets into an undulating quivering mass on the kitchen floor.

The absence of Carlos has caused me to spend a lot of time thinking about hope, dear listeners. Hope is a fickle thing. When it is absent, we despair and long for its presence, lamenting that we’ve lost something we didn’t at first realize we had. And then, over time, we find that we had hope after all, only it was a tiny hope, a little flame that burned in our chests, growing larger and larger, photosynthesizing the sunlight of our thoughts and pumping out the will to continue. When we wake up one morning to discover we have hope, it can be alarming. After all, after you’ve lived so long without any hope at all, how are you to deal with finally having it?

Being able to see a light at the end of a tunnel is, in its own way, more difficult than giving up, and accepting the endless darkness of the tunnel. But hope is a responsibility, a responsibility to ourselves. It is a gift we are given by that little flame within us, which always burns, no matter how small it becomes, and we must hold hope, burning and sometimes singing our weary fingers, and carry it with us. It can sometimes be a burden, in the vast vast darkness, it can illuminate our path, while we wait for the sun to rise. The night is long, listeners, and hope may sting our hands, but still we hold the flame aloft, and let it guide us through safer paths, to shelter, to safety. When the morning comes it begins with a chill, and then as the dew settles in on the wet grass beneath us, we see the sun reaching its bright tentacles up over the distant mountains. And we have morning.

Morning is how we heal, how we grow, how we find the stength to live.

Be safe. Keep hope alive, even when it stings.

And good night, Night Vale.

Good night.

Patron Blog #5: Watching My Every Sound

It’s been a bad few days. Come to think of it there are many ways in which it’s been an altogether bad few months, I would be tempted to say 2016 was a bad year like everyone else has been saying, and no doubt much of it has sucked. But I did spend the majority of the year in a safe home, even if I just couldn’t make it work in the end.

The depression has been REALLY bad for the past week or so. About a week ago I spent several hours sitting on my bed, listening to some of my favorite sad songs in Audacity, slowing them down to play at 0.70x speed. There was this hot pain in my chest and stomach, and I wondered if I was going to be sick. It was grief that I felt. I don’t know what I was feeling grief for. Maybe for my hope. Maybe for my life in Delaware. Maybe that in the end I’m back here, jobless and living with my mom, with no goals in sight.

I thought about college and how I never got to live my dreams there. I never got to live in a dorm room with a roommate who shared the same room, and do all those silly roommate things, and become friends with him. I never got to make lots of friends and be part of big groups wrapped in blankets watching movies in the dark. I never got to have dramatic breakups with boys on campus, and fuck three guys at once while trying to keep it down in our room. I never got to go to class in my pajamas, to stay up studying.

I just… sat here. Sat here and got fat and got diabetes, and my testosterone dropped to dangerous levels and my viatmin D failed me, and my depression got deeper, and the depression meds made my hard cock go soft, and my eyes drooped and fell, and I sank and sank and sank. Sank into mud, into the earth, into a warm well of sadness and sat at the bottom and looked up defeatedly at the sky above.

I’ve tried to write. I’ve failed the last couple of days. I mean, I wrote. It’s not even that bad. But the inspiration wasn’t there. I waited too long to write. I keep trying to push through but there’s so little to work with there. I can write the scenes just fine when I’m speaking them aloud to myself in the shower. But on the screen when I type… I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I don’t know about anything. I got angry at my sister and slammed on my breaks in the middle of the road and told her she could shut the fuck up or get out of the car. I was so ashamed of myself for pulling such a white trash move. I felt like my mother.

My mother is near, and she sucks my soul from my being, like a vampire. I’m so empty, so empty, so empty.

So empty.

Weight

There is too much connection

There are too many feelings

There is too much hammer space inside a little head

Too much for one mind to take in

It’s all just too much

I cannot hold the world

Atlas had a heart. Could it not be broken?

I am so small

And love is so big

It can’t fit inside me

I am so small

And hope is so big

It can’t fit inside me

I am so small

The world is too big

I can’t hold anything anymore

I am so small

Too small for faith or bravery

It’s all too big to carry

It’s all too much to hold

There is no space inside me

To keep these things