Another ultimatum

I don’t have anything more to say. I’ve written many drafts but I quickly noticed how they add nothing to what I’ve written before.
It’s another piece of evidence that I have been thinking the same way for the last few years.

The first major independent decision I made in my life I regretted. The most crucial of the things I’ve lost was my confidence.
I remember wanting to be at school just because I hated home, and wanting to be at home because I hated school. At the age of 18, after many years of thinking, I traveled to study abroad. That didn’t solve anything. In fact, it made my problems feel inescapable; I couldn’t “leave” my problems and travel away.

There were many ultimatums I have given myself. I wrote: “I will do my best effort, but if I don’t achieve X in Y days then I’ll have to make big changes.” Most ultimatums weren’t met, and I learned to save myself the paperwork.
There’s one thing I was always ashamed to admit. I tried not to say it or write, because as long as its only in my mind it could be untrue. I always wonder how different my life would have been if I was born in another random place. I can’t help but think my life would have been better.

The last few months I have been trying to slowly rebuild my confidence. The first step I took was to not think about the past. In that spirit, I believe I must stop writing in this blog. Because as soon as open the page, I get a heavy feeling as I remember the past all at once. I hoped I could write something very good as a final post, but I couldn’t. I really had nothing more to say.

There maybe some unpublished drafts that I will polish and publish, but I hope to focus more on the future.

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“Everything in its right place”

It took only a few days, a couple of days to be exact, for everything to be back the way it used. The phrase I hoped to avoid using is that everything is back to its right place.

I don’t where the feeling that I shouldn’t be alive comes from, but I’ve had it for as long as I remember. Even if it went away, I wouldn’t know how to live otherwise.

It amazes me how I can have the slightest amount of confidence. Maybe that is how confidence works: you are confident as long as you are certain. It doesn’t matter what you are certain of.

It gets annoying to realize the right response only after the window for it has passed. But it is nothing compared to the helplessness of thinking that it has always been out of my hands. The very core of my identity is flawed, and it has always been that way.

It feels more helpless to see that flaw in the eyes of others. When your mistakes are immediately forgiven, and when you are not expected to be any better. I sometimes wonder how many people who know me looked at me and thought to themselves: “I have so much to be grateful for” in the same way that statement is said when looking at terminally ill people.

It’s me against them, everyday. Even the closest people to me seem so distant at times. Like everything else that’s flawed in me, I notice my flaw but I cannot fix it. At times, I wish I wasn’t even able to tell when I’m doing something wrong. But I’m paranoid, and I can’t stop it.
Because I believe that the moment I stop being paranoid would be the moment I am most vulnerable for those who are plotting against me.

My mind is going away. I don’t know the medical term, but I know what I feel.

Everything good in my life I sought because I knew I had nothing else. It was one-dimensional; transcripts, awards, and any physical evidence I could find that I was good. Almost every time I am mentioned, the evidence is mentioned too. As if to balance out everything else about me. An average of two extremes.
Everything good in my life was the compensation I offered for my identity.

What I fear is that my mind will go before I have more evidence. Everything is in its right  ugly place now. But in a few years it might not be.

The same

 

The potential was always missed in places that are too familiar. All the cups of coffee that I drink to avoid wasting my mornings half-asleep. All the pills that I take to avoid wasting my nights half-awake. All the calculations of whether I really seized my energy, if it comes.

I chose travel, so that even if I worry about my present and my future, I would be comfortably far from my past.

But it’s the same.

I miss my past, until the new place becomes familiar. Then I realize it’s the same.

I write again in my crowded notebook. In a new language, but along the same lines. I have not seized the potential, if there’s any, in two different countries.

I should have never travelled, and the potential should have always remained not fully explored. So that it gives reason to avoid wasting everyday half-awake and half-asleep.

So that one could always say: “There is potential for things to be generally better in the future as a result of some of my actions.”

A night darker than average

 

The night was darker than average, and in my dark room what I feared most was invisible.
My thoughts were summarizing all my memorable experiences. It was all tiring, both living them and recalling them.
I heard familiar voices outside discussing general matters.
Am I dead?
(“It’s just a chemical imbalance in the brain. When there’s something wrong with your stomach, you take medications. It isn’t different with the brain.”)

I cannot deny this evil feeling I am trying to keep hidden.
I am evil, inherently evil. I can see the big picture now; all these memories fit together. They’re telling me the truth. I am evil.
(“Remember to say: I am ALLOWING these thoughts to negatively affect me.”)

I am tired of living and recalling, and this is a reasonable time of the year to feel tired. This isn’t patience, it’s uselessness and wishful waiting. You were right, Steve, you were right all along.
(“Give the bad voice in your head a name. Call him Steve! Now whenever Steve is talking to you, catch him. Call him on it. Say it in your head: “Steve is talking to me again.”)

 

 

Irrational Fear

I have an irrational fear, and it’s not my fear of flights.
It’s the fear that only when I overcome my fear of flights that the plane would crash. At my last seconds, the confidence that I most recently acquired would begin to quickly dissipate, and I would regain my fear of flights just the second before impact.

I tried to tell myself that even if my plane crashed, wouldn’t that be a relief of at least a few things?
But as soon as the plane shakes I firmly confirm that I don’t wish to be relieved today. Maybe the next flight, or some time in the future. But if it isn’t urgent, then maybe it’s best to be relieved much much later by the natural cause of old age.

When I was a kid, I tried to imagine what it would be like to be nothing. I tried to “feel” what it would be like if I have never existed. I imagined the closest thing to it is to be a cloud, or above clouds. What happens on Earth does not affect you, nothing affects you. You would be floating, but nothing ever happens, and you never die because you are nothing.
It’s not a perfect analogy, but every time I ride a plane and see clouds without being affected by the life that happens behind it, I feel very afraid.

I will just admit to myself that, for the time being, it is better to be something than to be nothing, and it’s better to be a living thing than a dead thing.
But after the plane lands, I might rethink.

What to expect?

I forgot how much I enjoyed skipping a night’s sleep. Being more disassociated from the outside world, and more attentive to my inner thoughts.

I remembered a conversation I had with my older brother last summer. He was waiting for replies about his job applications, and he seemed decided to marry next summer. He told me he was concerned that these were the last two big things to expect in life, and that would be it.

I had a suspicion that my brother and I shared the same fears, but we were never able to know it. Because when one of us expresses fear about something, the other tries to reassure him and to play it down.

This time, I had no more assurance than: “You never know.”
I couldn’t say more about the future when I feared it more than him. There’s not a moment in my life when I wasn’t eagerly waiting for something in the future. Everything great existed only in the future, as a projected consequence of my planned actions.
But I remember every self, and the diminishing expectations I had as I grew older. My 18-year-old self would be devastated if he knew his future. My 20-year-old self would be disappointed. My 23-year-old self probably wouldn’t be surprised to know about my current 24-year-old self.
I see exactly what my brother fears. In fact, the big things in my life have probably passed. I don’t even know what I expect of the next year or even the next five years.

I told him I will continue my higher education in Europe, that I will apply for the best places. If I get accepted, then I will spend a few years there. Otherwise, I won’t waste more time in education, and I’ll just get by here. He asked me if I still had energy left after all the years I spent away in college, to travel again and learn a new culture. I told him I had no choice, and I couldn’t stay anymore.

Since then, I applied to some places in Europe. But then I asked myself if I really had the energy. More importantly, I asked myself if I was ready to set an expectation and face the outcome a few years later. I have done this so many times in my life already, too many times.
I don’t think any of applications will be accepted.
I don’t think I’ll go, even if one of my applications was accepted.

A Random Tuesday

There is the two of us.

There is the distance between us, as if our separation was a physical consequence of repulsion.

There is the moon tonight, bright, unmatched, and incomparable. There are its many irregular reflections on the waves of the sea.

There are feelings, too complex to explain or to fully understand. But I understand fear, and my fears are coming true. I am beginning to question if I have feelings, or memories of feelings.

There is time. I remember you tonight, and I remember all the many times I remembered you before. I know that time will pass. Some people will become happy and go to heaven, some will become unhappy and go to hell, but, eventually, everyone will become nothing and go nowhere.

It’s been two years, and I still remember the late days of August and the early days of September.
It’s wrong to remember after this much time, I admit.
That is why I fear time; not because it will make me forget you, but because it makes it more wrong to remember you.

But I ask of you: Do you remember when I said that the moon reminds me of you?

Time will pass, and I will be defeated.
I’ll see nothing in the moon except an ordinary planet, nothing in this Tuesday except a random Tuesday, and nothing in you except memories of feelings.

 

To borrow the greatness of a mountain

I want to be good, you know? To have some value to someone.
Both by my own standards, and subjectively.

My story must be heard, an evidence that I have existed. And if I pass by a mountain, a great old mountain, I will engrave my name in it. I will borrow some of its greatness. The possibility will always remain that some passers will see the great mountain, and they might see my name engraved on it. They will know that I existed.

That’s the extent, isn’t? The limit.
Nothing is better than being remembered, and nothing is worse than being forgotten.

I have a feeling I will die thinking I was forgotten.
I would die the same way some wild animal dies in some of the world’s forests. A body without identity.
I would get eroded and withered, not like the summit of a mountain, but like some unremarkable rock.

The worst of the worst is that I will adapt to it, that it won’t bother me, that I will get used to that image of my silent forgotten dead body.
After all, I have become used to be forgotten in life. It shouldn’t be much harder to be forgotten in death. I wouldn’t even be there to endure its difficulty. All in all, isn’t my death easier than my life? Because I live to mourn being forgotten in life, but I wouldn’t be around to mourn over my corpse in the middle of the forest.

I am already getting used to it. In fact, I look forward to it.

I am tired, and mountains can never be tired. Even if I engraved my name, it will be weak and it will be eroded before anyone can see it. Even if I went up everyday, and engraved my name again to make sure it remains, I’ll die knowing I’ll be forgotten.

A day to remember: after 12AM

The first girl that I knew on a personal level had her first baby this year. We were around 7. She used to invite me to play. Her mom welcomed me, and her dad was rarely around.

I was reminded of another girl recently as well. Our mutual friends tried often to “recommend” us to each other, but she didn’t seem interested and I didn’t change anything. I learned later that she was actually interested in my older brother.
I was asleep, and I was awakened by her voice outside my door. She has been married for a few years now. She was asking her 2 year old son: “Do you want to call daddy?”

Her younger sister, all I remembered about her is that she always asked me questions and always listened while looking me in the eye.

Here we are today: the older isn’t married to my brother, and I am engaged to the younger sister.

There’s also Claire. The first time I was ready, and the first time I envisioned a future and a family of my own.

I don’t know why I find it appropriate or relevant to talk about girls on my birthday. Probably because I will most likely be married by my next birthday.

I don’t know why everyone else around my age is having kids, or getting married in the first place. My grandmother a few days ago was asking me to hurry and get married. She was suggesting that it should definitely be no later than next summer.

She is the only one of my grandparents remaining.

Her husband, who I hated after his death, died a long painful death. It was a medical error, and his leg had to be cut. I visited him. He was on a bed, he was saying in a very low voice: “I’m thirsty, give me water.” My grandmother explained it was against what the doctors said. He had to be given small quantities because of something in this throat, I think. Then, He said that it was too hot, and he asked me to lower the degree on the thermostat. My grandmother waved for me not to do it, and she also explained that it was for his health. She asked me to pretend I was doing it, but I didn’t pretend. He was still awake, and if I pretended to lower the thermostat he would notice and think I was treating him like a child. I couldn’t do it to him.

My other two grandparents had alzheimer since I was a child until they died. I remember they gave me candy every time I visited. The only interaction I remember, is that my grandmother, my father, and I were sitting in her room. My father teased me by saying I should close my open mouth or I’ll swallow a fly. She hugged me and said that I was her grandson and that it would be my father who will swallow a fly.

I see my place within this family, and among us all I cannot find a happy person. Every time I meet them, I stare in their eyes. I know that everyone can smile, but no one can hide misery from their eyes. I don’t know if happiness doesn’t exist, of if it means much less than I hoped.

But at the very least, happiness should be whatever is enough to justify the costs of living. I have no justification, and I lived only because as a human, or as an animal, I fear death. I lived for no reason, and next year I’ll marry for no reason.

It’s depressing to know that after 24 years of living I am either ignorant or knowing of a very unpleasant truth.

A rough plan

I think no living person can claim to hate living, and those who truly hate living are dead.
That is what I ought to remember.

Consequently, my quest is to find the reason I preferred living, and once I find it I can abuse it. Much like those who live for food become obese, and those who live for alcohol become alcoholic.
Also similarly to them, I would overindulge in it until its appeal is equaled by the misery it brings. It would become a neutral activity, like scratching one’s ears or putting the hands in the pockets.

Eventually, after eradicating the joy I found in life, I would be deserving of being called a person who hated living.
It must follow like that. I hope it follows like that.
It wouldn’t make sense if someone truly hated living and still lived.