I have come to understand that there are not always nor nevers with you. I have also learned that reality is not mine to make. Or rather, maybe I’m at least a little suspicious that’s not the case. My belief in my word doesn’t carry the same conviction it had when I was young. What lurked in the darkness behind closed eyes and measured breath may not have ever been. What I mean to say is I can’t lie to myself as well as I used to. Fictions and fairytales have lost their magic to continue on forever. All that’s left are endings.
Tonight I listened to a story as I was falling asleep. It was a fantastic story full of adventure, comedy, romance. It felt familiar as if it was a memory, or perhaps a day dream I once had in school. I recognized the characters, not as themselves but as myself and mine. I was invested. I wanted it all to work out. But then they said their goodbyes. Then the girl died. Everything unresolved. And that was it. It flung me back. I crashed heavily into my body while it lay in bed. I spiraled downward into myself recalling the times I picked apples from trees that didn’t exist and bit into the fruit that could never be. I revisited the grave of the homunculus that I created at 8 and kept alive til 20. The collection of feelings I stripped from myself and shoved into the form of someone who would never taste water nor see the sky. Manic depression kept in check by a god complex.
I am ashamed to say it, but I wished to be God from the moment I knew him. How could I not want to be? With all the power I had, it was never enough to bring my dreams into reality. The most I could do was torment others and curse myself. Weak imitation, even making a mockery of Lucifer and his intentions. I demanded such control over the spiritual nature of the world that I failed to live properly in the physical. And now here I sit, typing all this out in hopes that someone will ask to read it despite not even knowing it exists.
thoughts from 8/25/24
I wonder how he knew it was a dagger. When he described it in my chest he said it was a dagger. After he took it out he asked who put it there. I had, I replied. I could see it in his hand. Rust colored and dull. It wasn’t real but we both could see it there sitting in his hand plain as day. I wonder if N———— was ever as real as that dagger. Did she ever feel anything outside of the emotions that I gave her. Was she ashamed I never talked about her to others. Was she hurt that I blamed her for the sadness I had.
K—————— told me in a story I once wrote “S——————— there is nothing left for you to discover here. Go. Go because what is on the other side of that veil is real. Find it. There is nothing to be had here sitting in the shadows of eternity.”
What veils then are left for me to cross over from? I can name but one, and still I am not prepared to make that journey. Five, ten, fifty years more and I may be ready. For now let me watch the clouds. Let me taste the air. Let me experience all things to their marrow. Life is too much, and not enough.