To whom it may concern; to my family, to my friends, to all the ones I have ever loved, to the stray dogs and the poets, the undesirable ones and the late night drivers, to June.
I am writing this without any pain. In fact, I am at peace with myself and with the things I’m about to do. I have come to this peace a long time ago. This isn’t an exclusive and sudden movement within my mesolimbic system, no, it’s what I need to do to feel complete. I am my own Vestige. From an early age on I have felt like the lesser part of my own body. Weak and pale, with my crooked teeth and the bad smell stemming from my clothes. I was, and always am, an external point of view flying high above the city, above everyone. It wasn’t a bad thing, it helped me stay independent, be with my own thoughts, no chatter in between. It gave me a much better understanding of the people I’m dealing with and, truth be told, I think it could’ve been worse. My parents weren’t poor, I was educated well and fed plenty. But at one point of my early youth there were friends, and with them the pain of being left alone. And with this pain came a new feeling, one I haven’t felt before, the urge to end it, once and for all. And over the years, whenever I had a bad moment, this urge latched onto me and fed itself with the sudden rush of unexplained negative feelings, until it grew and grew and filled every single part of my body. There weren’t only friends that fed the parasite, there was also the perception of my own body, ugly and fragile in front of the mirror. Then there was humiliation, the shaking when I failed, over and over again, when my teachers yelled or screamed or laughed at me, when other children pointed their fingers at me, grinning and giggling and whispering behind my back. And there was fear, the fear of this being it, the fear of growing up. And with that fear came my way of life, my gospel to be true for every day, or else it would be my last. I slept little, drank a lot, wrote on cheap paper and smoked one cigarette after another. A very destructive state, but one I felt comfortable with, I didn’t plan on staying long anyway. My biggest of these fears, one that, much to my own disdain, came true just a few months ago, was that of my own future. This is it. This really is all I’ll ever be. There is no greater goal pulling me in, no reason to be alive aside from all the different weird emotions dragging me into their spiral. Growing up was all about that, growing up. I wasn’t unhappy growing up. In fact, I think I had a very good childhood, and there are some moments I wish I could replay, over and over again, like a nostalgic movie that you watched when you were little. Moments such as my first kiss in the passenger’s seat of my friend’s little green car, the first time holding somebody else’s hands, spending my self-earned money on stupid little books and not reading them, shaving my hair over and over again, and writing one piece of sentimental yearning after another. Every single second with my parents, of course, the greatest people roaming this earth. The only ones that I feel sorry for are them, the people I aspired to be. I hope that I, at least once, in the short span of being alive, made them proud. And I hope they heal fast, smile, when they think about me, and start anew.
Right now I’m thinking about this dream I had consecutively over the past few months. In it, I’m naked, sitting on somebody’s porch. It’s a warm summer night and I’m all by myself. But I think, I know, I wasn’t. There was somebody else with me, on this porch. I could see clothes laying around, phone cases or necklaces, like hints scattered. Sometimes I saw their shadow, felt their touch, their tongue in my mouth, their voice whispering something obscure. I think about them a lot. This dream, in a way, is how I felt growing up. To say I was alone would be a misrepresentation. I had so many beautiful people with me, on the path towards the pale yonder, so many faces and stories and loved ones. But there were only few I could see myself with. Most of the time I would obscure my own visage in front of my friends, try to adapt my personality to match theirs, or hide myself ashamed of being next to them. They were the clothes left behind around the porch. But there was somebody I once felt close to, a woman I have loved deeply and that, for the first time, gave me a feeling of acceptance for who I am. She must’ve been the shadow, the touch, the warmth I felt. As I sit here, in this dimmed down kitchen, hallucinating from the lack of sleep, I try to remember her voice. It’s a very simple task, of course, but I just can’t do it. I forgot her voice. Did she forget mine, too? Now I’m grabbing another cigarette, it must’ve been my tenth, or my eleventh, I lost track of my own consumption. I shake off the feeling of doubt, exhale the smoke, and continue writing. I was never really afraid of dying. Not in the religious sense, at least. I did my best to be a good person by my own definition and no God shall rule over me for it, and if one does, then I would have refused to live by rules that benefit the evil and punish the weak in the first place. It must’ve been during the cold times last year, when I first understood the concept of dying. I was standing outside, on a barely lit street. I couldn’t stop staring at the snow beneath my feet. It was so pretty, reflecting the night city lights and the stars and the moon. I knew that if I were to die, it should be here, bleeding out in the snow. A red sea staining the pure. Making my own death poetic. People die all the time, they fall from great heights or eat something bad. They don’t know they’re about to die when they wake up and get dressed. They never got the chance to say goodbye to anyone and most of them die with regrets. I think that’s sad, even more than the actual death. I think about the world after I pass, and even if it’s egoistical, about the tears people may or may not weep. I think about colleagues and old acquaintances being riddled with my disappearance, talking about me, thinking about me, reading what I wrote. There’s always somebody better than me. There’s always somebody more attractive, or funnier, or cooler, and I think that’s okay, but it’s something that’s been hurting me for some time now. My siblings are all so talented. They play music, write complicated papers and care for themselves. I always wanted to be more like them, to be better, but I couldn’t do it. I never once finished something, never really learned how to play an instrument, never stuck with one thing to do for the rest of eternity. I will die, blessed by memories, without a true legacy. And I think, is that okay? Would it be okay to leave nothing to people who gave you everything? Everyone leaves me, too, and when they do, they leave nothing but memories. Some good, some bad.
Disclosure is rare and hurts more than just pulling the plug. I remember this one moment earlier this year, when I saw her for the last time. I wouldn’t have changed a single thing. I would’ve pressed the button on the remote and replayed it over and over again until I couldn’t and then I would’ve ripped off all the things I wrote about her and burned them on the spot like some fanatical priest getting rid of blasphemous scriptures written by other people. And then I would cry again, as I did for the past year, until I’m out of tears. And then I would do it all again. My own inferiority fluctuates into strange obsessions. A devotee for love and touch. All for a woman I’ve only known for the smallest part of my life because she kissed me and held me and loved me once and it is that love that I yearn for to the point of cutting my own wrist. Drowning in my own pitiful spit. But I wouldn’t be sad, or mad, or angry, neither of these, I would be proud and happy and at ease. Being alive isn’t bad, I am. This world isn’t unjust or cruel, I am. I am committed to nothing and interested in everything. I feel so deeply that the earth will split itself open the moment I stop. There’s beauty in everything but me, and I am the faulty little parasite leeching on my flesh. I wish for some redemption, at least, some divine being wiping my tears as I step over. But I fear there will be nothing of the like, even less, there will be a black void and nothing else, and I think that’s okay. Suddenly I’m nine again, sitting in my own room, crying about school. I’m crying because there’s nobody there playing with me, because they think I’m weird, because they don’t think I’m cool enough. My dad comes in to comfort me. His big arms are wrapped around me. He tells me it’s okay to feel lonely, he says I’m good the way I am, says he’s proud of me. My mom’s there too, making me my favorite dish, reading me until I fall asleep. My dog’s laying on my lap, playing with the toy I bought him as a present. I’m nine and I’m asleep and the world is okay. Everyone’s proud of me. Everyone wants to be my friend.
Yours