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I am not myself. Looking through unused 100 word entries has convinced me of this. They are all decent writings, but the thing is, itís no longer me. I am not that sad girl anymore. I donít dwell over his death. I am not surrounded by blackness. I am here, perched on a rock basking in the warm sun. In comparison, I am happy. Situations have not changed, but the mind has. My life has every reason to cause me depression, but no, I sit here and am fine. Under immense stress, and still I feel nothing. I am blank.
He travels across our feet. No real harm done though the dog fills with a barking rage. Scampers from room to room seemingly unstoppable. His fortress, his abode hidden behind walls. Dusty and bare. Vacant. Assumptions claim he comes alone. To trap him would be inhumane. Run free little one, run free. Just please refrain from chewing the wires. On occasion he gets loud, presumably gnawing out new doorways, creating new exit strategies. A quick jab at the wall quiets him. In the warmer weather he may leave, but the cool air always brings him back. For now heís mine.
There is this particular street that I walk the dog down when I feel too lonely for my own skin. Our presence sets off a chorus of barks. Too many dogs to count, but they come out of every where. They lean over fences, and appear on window sills. Itís craziness and mayhem. It must awaken the entire neighborhood. Me and the dog just make our way down the street as if it were a haunted house and out of anywhere an unexpected figure could appear. We both get a little jumpy. It reminds me that I am not invisible.
I would give anything to be able to write. Even a meaningful 100 words would make me content. Iíve lost it all. School overwhelms and it occupies my thoughts. But that isnít why I canít write. I canít even write anything good about school. I suck. Iím done for. This is going to be a long month of writings. Almost dreadful. I try and I try, and I cannot pull forth anything worthy. Nothing. I canít even write about death anymore. I miss him in no profound way. At least not profound sounding in words. Still sometimes feels profound though.
Hereís two super short short stories.
ďDo you even know which way is up?Ē It could be that my question caught her off guard.
ďNo,Ē Emily said, pointing skyward. I suspect the entire world to be liars, and rightly so. This wasnít exactly the catalyst of examples, but it exists in all of us.
Sirens heard in the distance take on new meanings when a sick parent awaits you at home. Upon death that meaning changes. You think where were you when he died? Why werenít you there? Where are they now to mask the wailing of my eternal grief?
Oh dear. I have fallen horribly behind. Too much pressure all around. No job, tons of school work, 100 words every day, endless journal entries, compulsive picture takingÖ it goes on and on. This semester will surely kill a piece of my tired soul. I know exactly what I am getting myself into. Two honors projects. Four classes, three hard ones. Dear God. We will have to excuse my tardiness this month in keeping up with these words. I have a few remaining stock entries I can use. Still not writers block, just a lack of meaningful words. I swear.
Ask me about it and I wonít tell you. There is nothing to tell. Plenty to hide. A heart beat under a shirt. No one sees so why should I share. It is my torment alone. My heartache. Like acid reflux. Do you want to hear about that? Itís the same difference. Everything leaves eventually. Only death lasts forever. Only dying constitutes hell on earth. This is a picnic in comparison. I have it easy. Gliding through life on a sled, down a bumpy hill, in the middle of summer. Maybe you could just wake me when itís over. Please?
I talked circles around my professor after class. I made even myself dizzy with the topic jumping, unfinished thoughts and questions that I never allowed her time to answer. It reminded me of last month when my therapist literally told me to shut up and listen to her for a moment. I half expected that professor to do the same. This talking thing is new to me. A life spent in silence now opens to the light of day. I ramble and talk fast. And this is the same professor that I had during the semester that my dad died.
How is it possible that logic is not logical?
It is not possible to reason this stuff out,
he says as he talks nonsense in the front of the classroom. But this is logic. And somehow it is logical to put commas in statements where they clearly do not grammatically belong, but yet according to him they do. It makes me furious. I miss the tangibility of numbers in math. This is a math professor teaching a warped version of English. Like an English teacher trying to teach math. It just doesnít work. This is the most illogical logic ever.
I am a walking contradiction. Everything I do and say gets wrapped into one large sum of a contradiction. I like myself, yet I hurt myself. All my life I wanted the depression to go away, now I fight to retrieve it. My illogical math logic is more logical than I am. I want to be sad while being able to face the world as I do now. I want what I have now, but with a sadness attached. Most of all, I want the return of my muse. Let me write. Give me anything at all. Fuzzy pink bunnies.
Sometimes I think that if I try hard enough then I should be able to erase her from my mind. To extricate her from my memories. Scent is the strongest memory and I donít think I really ever knew what she smelled like. Voice, in my opinion, is the weakest memory, and it was her voice that kept me most captivated. There is only one sentence I can still clearly hear her say, but I noticed that even that is beginning to fade. Maybe she wonít be my life long obsession. Maybe this will go away. One can hope, right?
The stress hits. Math has this effect. Concave and desolate, my soul aches. Crush me, I am overloaded. Soon overworked. Overwhelmed. Can I do this? If I can then I can do anything. I already know I can do anything. Another impossible lay out before me. Possibly no big deal. Or a huge problem. Could this be too much? Donít we all have a threshold? I have limits. Now Iím tired. I got stuck and I wrote fuck you in my notebook and quit. An inability to write stories only adds to my stress. I feel steeped in unfelt sadness.
I want to know if it hurt. Was his death as painful for him as the view was for me? Why did it have to be this way? I would do it again if I could, even if I couldnít change a thing. He was my dad. The only one Iíve ever known. The only man Iíll ever love like that. There are no compensations in death. Is he happy wherever he is? I miss him impossibly. Itís unfathomable. Today is one of those
I canít believe heís really dead
days. This is agony. I want to hurt him myself.
I skipped my morning class even though it wasnít canceled. I guess I really do value my life, enough to miss a psychology class. It was bittersweet. I wanted to be there because it was psychology, but because it was psychology I knew I could afford to miss it. The night class was canceled. I wasnít going anyways. I have to meet the professor Thursday to have her sign a very important paper for my honors project. Turning those papers in is like d-day. The day itís destined to happen no matter how hard it is. I can do this.
I lost my father.
I lost my father.
I just kept repeating it. I believe it was the only time in a dream that I didnít realize he was dead. We were walking the dog and I lost him the same way one loses a dog. I looked under rocks, and under porches. He was misplaced, missing. I wanted so badly to find him because I felt the same void Iíve felt everytime Iíve lost my dog. Thereís that fear of never seeing them again. My heart was breaking and I didnít realize it was a dream. I lost him.
All the things I once hated about him I now miss the most. I can still envision him walking through the living room door. Sometimes at 10:30, I can almost hear him in the bathroom getting ready for his stupid third shift job. There was a short time when I had a first shift job while he worked third shift. I told my mom that I missed him, but told her not to tell him. I was only seeing him on the weekend during that time. Not that we ever talked any other time though. It still hurt the same.
Feelings are like air conditioners in the winter and quilts in the summer. They are never what we want when we want. They are tangible and they are even changeable. They can be mutable. Doctors prescribe pills that can make all of the shit stop cold. Or warm. You can warm it up and or you can drown in it. We can die this way. Even the intangible can kill a person. There exists a pain, a grief, bigger than both you or I or him or her. Nobody is untouchable. My father was not invincible. No, nope, nobody is.
Every black can fade away. Black skies, black shirts, black feelings. Black paint peels and chips. Black hair turns to grey. And what is black but a mere combination of every color together. How does that work? Nothing black lasts forever. Black dye wears away; black cars can dull in the sun. Black lungs die. Black shoes get muddy or holey. Black ties get sauce spots. Black tie events end with people going home changing into pajamas. Black teeth rot and fall out. Blackened limbs are amputated. Black fur will shed onto your white carpet. Nothing in life lasts forever.
Last month I heard about the second leg of My Chemical Romanceís tour and immediately found that I couldnít go. I have floor seats for their first show of the tour; got them before knowing more dates would be added. Iím driving two hours to get there. So, I had found out I couldnít go to the next show. I never stopped thinking about it and dwelling miserably, though I gave up hope of going and knew regardless that I missed out on floor seats. And then my world changes drastically. IíM GOING MAY 8th AND I GOT FLOOR SEATS!!
Yesterday was d-day. I handed in both signed papers for my honors program projects. Iím now committed. Still not scared though. Iím already on the way to having too much information for the Asperger Syndrome paper. So that paper will be fine. I have some stuff for the adolescent egocentrism paper, but Iíve been working more on the other one. Iím glad Iím not waiting for the last minute. Thatís a huge relief. At least I have a light at the end of this semesterís tunnel. That concert is on the last day of school. Getting there shanít be easy.
Iím still okay. It all comes at once and I should be a mess. I still stand. This is my reprieve. I now know Iím doing the right things. Iíll maintain the happiness an the expense of creativity. I skipped my ritualistic beginning-of-the-semester breakdown and now what should be a newfound middle-of-semester breakdown is passing by as a mere bump in the road. Iím not panicked, though I should be. Or at least normally would be. I should be
for reprieve but finding none. Instead I am fine and I am appreciative of that. Everything will be okay now.
Every time I see them is the best moment of my life. Tonight was fantasmic. My Chemical Romance is what perfection wants to be when perfection grows up. They knocked my socks off with their superb greatness. I am aghast and euphoric. The treacherous life-threatening ride up there and home was so worth it. My cramped hands from white knuckling the steering wheel were worth it. They put on the best live performances ever. It doesnít get better than them. And the best part? Not being sad because I know Iíll be seeing them again in a couple of months!
The death of Anna Nicole Smith has surely taught me something invaluable. Something I should know already. There are no exceptions. Anybody can and will die. We are all mortal. Itís frighteningly real. And I feel a bit of grief over her death. Or maybe itís just the idea of any death at all. Iíve always liked her though. It makes me sad. So tragic and dramatic. I donít believe there are many celebrities who could die and make me feel so intensely about it. I would cry if Rosie OíDonnell died. I wish people didnít have to die anymore.
In the shapes on the wall from objects unseen, I wonder if you linger in the shadow. Are you caught in the riptide of this life and the next? Perhaps youíve moved onto the next, and I have merely lost my sanity. Finally. Weíve lost our minds. Fallen to the throes of all that death entails. I would probably laugh in the face of an apparition. Contrition on behalf of the dead means nothing.
Is it hard understanding Iím incomplete?
Gone out on a sour note and the pungent stench remains in your wake. Everything I do affected by you.
I feel I live proof that age is only a number. The number stopped feeling comfortable last year. And now this year it feels utterly depressing. Developmental Psychology was the saddest class ever. This is my physical peak and itís downhill from here. Iím getting old for sure. Itís inevitable. And the worst part? Sharing my birthday with a dead man. I always knew that was unfortunate, and now it just sucks. This is my justifiable time to let go and give up. To quit at this whole life thing. Iím sorry. I canít always do this. Roll over. Die.
Did you have to look for shoes on the day you died? Do they supply them up there in heaven? Does nothing exist after life? Is this it? Is this all I have to look forward to. Dying with no shoes, maybe no underwear. Hospital gowns can be so revealing, yet I said nothing to you. I wanted to go too. That's what I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you that I'll be in need of a sign. I believe nothing. There might be something, but it is probably nothing. God angers me sometimes. He just doesn't know.
Iím hoping that after learning probability from this stupid ass math class that Iíll be able to figure out the exact odds of being born on the same damn day as my father. 1 out of 365 seems too easy. Why arenít more people born on the same day as a parent? Iím not special. And if I am, then I donít want to be. Not anymore. Iím done. This day was always a bad day, even way before he died. Now itís just hell. This is my hell worse than the anniversary of his death. It canít get worse.
Clearly, I am not the only person who says strange things during normal conversation. It started before class when a friend told me of the effect coffee has on him. He immediately felt stupid and said he shouldnít have said that. But heís a guy who is very much like myself so I excused it as normal, at least for us. Socially awkward. But then after class, there was another event with someone of a higher importance. It was odd and crazy. And she showed no sign of regret, which added weirdness. What was she thinking? Way too much information.
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