“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.

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Weaker moments

Maybe only out of ignorance would a human detest a perfect being and his perfect plan.

Let us depart from my reproach and your ambiguous hints. Let us discuss and decide, and I hope to replace my ignorance with unshaken confidence. Take my weakness as a bargaining advantage, as I’m desperately looking to negotiate.

I will never understand you, until I understand natural disasters and unearned punishments. Because unless you assure me that my misery would not be just another natural disaster, I have no faith in your goodness and no respect for your twisted plan.

If I died either out of misery, or as a result of a natural disaster, both scenarios would fit perfectly with your perfect plan.

I reach the same conclusion in your presence and your absence. But in my weaker moments, I look to the sky and I pray.

Please, let your mercy come as a natural disaster this instant. Bury me in your flood. Cleanse the world of me. Cleanse my memory of the knowledge that I once was.

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 Pure Apology

Nothing remains but memories of feelings. And only now do I have a more objective view, perhaps (somewhat) similar to yours.

I still remember you on occasion, when the moon is especially bright, or when the night is especially dark and missing something.

This is a pure apology; nothing but an admittance of guilt and an expression of regret.

I am sorry.

I guess this is the classic procedure, how things like this end; nothing out of the ordinary. Many stages, but at the end is a pure 100% apology. A letter devoid of anything but guilt, regret, and memories. A letter so unlike anything I have written for you in the past.
But I stand by my apology, I was wrong and I regret having written any of them.

It’s a near impossible task for me to write more, though I want to express more. I want to remain in touch, if only by writing letters that you cannot read. But how do I address you? A past lover, or a past opponent? A stranger ? but I cannot see you as a stranger anymore.

It must be part of the classic procedure. If the apology is pure, after it comes nothing.

 

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.

 

A day to remember: at night

I ordered some food. It took longer than I thought to be done, but I didn’t mind it. I sat looking at myself and thinking.

I looked at my jeans, so washed up and faded. I bought them during my second year in my previous college, and they were always my favorite. They had coffee stains from last year, and though I washed it many times, they were still there. I wondered how many people have noticed them.

I looked at my arms. My younger brother joked a few years earlier that they were hairy; he called me a werewolf.

 

It was silent in the restaurant, and I remembered the noises the new students made throughout last week. It was orientation week. I observed that they seemed young. I was amazed by the difference between us, even though I was only older by a year.

I asked myself if I envied them. But I quickly dismissed the thought. I hoped and assumed that I didn’t.

 

I must have done a perfect job of making my last birthday unremarkable. I don’t remember what I wore, where I was, or what I did. Really, if my age is counted by the birthdays I remember, I would be still 23 years, or much much younger.

This year, however, I failed to do the same.

I thought too much. In fact, I thought enough about today that I thought of a birthday wish.

I wish I never have to go through another day like today.

 

I would have preferred if my birthday was confined to a physical place, and I could choose whether to attend it or not. It would be only a minor detail whether my age became 24.01 years or remained 23.99 years.

 

My food was done, and I was hungry but I didn’t feel like eating anymore. I took a bite, and planned to take the rest home.

I stopped by a shop to buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. My only other pack was consumed throughout the last year of college. I thought the day was already abnormal that it didn’t matter what I did anymore.

I remembered when my older brother and I were talking, and he said to me that we should be very grateful our parents warned us a lot about smoking. He told me that most of his friends smoked, but he never smoked and never wanted to.

I also remembered when I was in summer camp, and in the chemistry lab they showed us how much smoking is harmful through an experiment. Later, we saw the assistant for that lab smoking and we were surprised. He was in the same lab, he even prepared some of the materials on the harmful effects of smoking.

 

As I was driving back home, I regretted not going to see my sister.

I smoked the first cigarette, and then I followed it with five more. Unlike smoking in college, this time I enjoyed every second of it. I listened to Present Tense by Radiohead on repeat through the ride home. The smokes hurt my eyes a little bit and it was more difficult to see in front of me. I reminded myself that I don’t need to smoke. I could just drive off a ledge. But I always feared I would regret it when it was too late.

 

I really wish I don’t have to go through another day like today.

 

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An Unfortunate Night

I look at you, and I avert my eyes.
I look at the sky, pretty beyond description and far beyond reach.

If only I were a star, and I could part of the sky. I would be her partner, burning to add brightness to her nights so that she may never be lonely.

It’s unfortunate that I wasn’t a star.
But it isn’t unfair. And I know that anyone who looked at the sky, wished to be her star. The sky is one, and the gazers are many.

And maybe everything I say, and everything I could say, is repetitive and unnecessary.

I said this before, but let me say more of what is repetitive and unnecessary:
I wish that I was never born, that I never saw the sky, and that I never sat down gazing at her helplessly, repetitively, and unnecessarily.

When she rained, I cried hoping she couldn’t tell my tears from her raindrops. And when she stopped, I looked to the ground wishing to be devoured instantly.

 

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.

Aren’t we looking at the same sky?

As I looked, as I asked with no words,
As the eyes took away every cover.

As you looked for some things in the sky,
I looked down to the ground, it was lower.

You said no, with no words, and I listened
cold as winter,  and as scorching as summer.

Days have passed, and you’re gone, and I’m here
And the sky never looked any better

But I wonder if you saw the same sky,
and I wonder if you looked any better

There are those who look up to the sky,
and there are those who look at one another.

How old am I?

It’s frustrating, to have so much to say but to not be able to say it accurately.

But let me try.
I don’t anymore think it would be unfortunate to die.
I know my birthday is coming up soon, but am I 23 or am I becoming 23?

Either way, I think I have lived for too long. I wish I died when I was 18, when I was hateful and angry towards everyone but myself.
I remember my 18th birthday. At midnight, the early moments of being 18, I was chatting online with a female friend. She told me I would remember her whenever I thought of my 18th birthday. Well, it’s funny that I only thought of my 18th birthday when I’m about to become 24 (or 23) years old.

I partially agree that you become wiser as you age. I say that as I acknowledge that my 18 years old tried his best. With all the hate I have towards my life, I still admit that my 18 years old self really tried his best. Which leads me to the painful realization: It couldn’t really have been otherwise. When I look in the mirror, I don’t hate what I did, I hate what I am.

It must be difficult to hear for my 18 years old self, but I wish I was someone else, someone who could have been otherwise. I still mourn every loss my 18 year old self had, but in addition I mourn the losses between then and now.

Could I be considered a terminally injured soldier on the battlefield, asking: please let it end?