Stream of consciousness?

I just woke up after a multitude of stupid, boring dreams. They literally bore me to the death of my sleep, but that’s not why I’m here.

I’m here because I woke up thinking of her. Writing it here, now, feels sort of strange, but anyway.

I was trying to assess my sadness by the tightness I felt in my chest. The weight of that heavy void that made my ribcage feel like it wanted to cave in. Perhaps the gravity and lying on my stomach is helping, but in that moment, I couldn’t feel it as acutely I’d felt it before.

I felt good? It reminded me of one of the lines she said, the word good. And I was wondering if I’m being pretentious, if the feeling wasn’t genuine. And how I felt guilty about feeling good in that miniscule moment.

It comes to my mind really easily now. Like, something, I don’t know, it slips through the door of my mind, or maybe it’s my heart, and it’s somehow strange and it’s not. I love her still. I love her. And that takes me to the thought that maybe I ended up making a cage out of that love for her regardless.

Perhaps not one of possessiveness, but of something that I couldn’t see, I couldn’t comprehend.

Maybe I suffocated her. Gradually. Maybe she was suffocating and I couldn’t see it. Maybe I suffocated us. The burden of everything that I was, that I was dealing with. The burden I had inadvertently put upon her shoulders, that she was my raison d’être; that thread of light (and these are her words) that connected me to life for so long, to this world. Maybe I leaned the entire weight of my living on her, and she tried to carry me, carry us for as long as she could…did I end up making her feel like another workhorse in our relationship?

Questions like this last one occur to me all the time, but I simply have no way of answering them, so I have to let them sit. Unanswered. Let them go, because they drive me crazy, up the walls of my head, and I can’t breathe.

Anyway, maybe I was actually that burden. And that makes me feel guilty again, for keeping her back; I do realize that I wasn’t holding her hostage, that a relationship doesn’t work that way, and I wasn’t keeping her against her will, but still. I feel guilt for having become the reason that she couldn’t be the best of herself that she wanted to be; to have, perhaps, become an obstacle in her way of evolving, of becoming.

Before, I was thinking that she took some part of me with her. My feeling about that thought changed from being okay to I don’t know how that makes me feel. But now, I could see that she gave me parts of her as well; in fact, she gave so much, and I kept taking and taking…and not giving much in return. I did try to appreciate it, to be grateful—god knows, at times I felt like my chest would explode from how thankful I felt, but maybe I didn’t express it well; and maybe I didn’t give back enough. Maybe I didn’t give back what she needed, what she wanted. After all, isn’t that part of why we’re here? She gave and gave, and I took and took without giving back what she needed and wanted.

And how does that make me feel? It made me feel compelled enough to come back here and write it all down, the whole mental/emotional process. For later rumination, ha! But back to the point. It makes me feel bad, selfish. Makes me feel like the oblivious bastard I always think I am. Inadequate. I

told my therapist that I feel like I’m this animal offspring that’s left behind in the middle of a wild forest. Unprepared. Illiterate. Half blind, and not at all made for this life.

Last night, I was thinking about how my haste for death is actually me rejecting life; meaning that I hate it, that I feel repulsed by it that I want to keep it at an arm’s length. But could that hatred, that revulsion, stem from fear? That I actually feel afraid of this great unknown that is life, just like how we fear the vast void of space, the bottomless depth of the ocean?

Maybe I’m so fucking afraid of living that I just want to hide behind death, just like a child hides behind their mother. (On a more random note, maybe I equal my mother with death, just like my therapist suggested that my wanting to die, to have been a stillborn, might be an attempt to going back to that fetal stage in the womb…)

Why does it feel like betrayal?

I’m waiting for the page to load, and my heart feels like it’s leaping to my throat.

I was waiting for my phone to show H.M.’s text to me and I still felt the same.

What’s this feeling? Is it fear? Is it dread? I feel it freeze in my veins; I feel the muscles bunching up, tensing as if readying themselves for a fight that never comes. Is it how stress feels?

I’ve been journaling my emotions, or rather my convoluted way of understanding my emotions, did I mention that in my previous post? Anyway, that is what I’ve been doing, and this is yet another attempt at that.

I feel sad, defeated, and hurt. I also feel angry.

My sister asked me if I feel betrayed.

Am I that transparent?

I do. I do feel betrayed that’s what I told her. And I don’t understand where it’s coming from. I mean, I do, but still…I’m trying to think about it in a logical way and that’s just not the way it’s done. Feelings are feelings, and I just have to let them flow. I shouldn’t try to analyze them, that’s what I’ve been told. It still comes more naturally to me than letting myself feel it, whatever it is.

Why did it have to be Fëanáro of all people? What should I do with this knowledge? What can I really do?

Nothing.

He’s not my enemy, that’s the problem I have with feeling betrayed. H.M. knew of the circumstances regarding my relationship, or lack thereof, the consequent falling out and why it had happened, and yet, she went and talked to him anyway.

Is it what they call comparing notes?

It just occurs to me that this is exactly the reason the old me kept the circles of its friends separated from one another. Because that way, they wouldn’t notice the contradictions between the masks it used to wear when with each of them.

The only exception was her, with whom I wore no masks and here we are.

I can’t help but think how that sentence is so very befitting:

“Fate and circumstances have returned us to this moment, when the teacup shatters.”

I don’t know what he told her, and there is no way for me to ever know. But I trust her, and I trust her judgment. Fuck, I love her, and maybe that’s why it makes me feel betrayed. Is this how it feels to be possessive? I don’t trust him, at all, so could it be that?

I’m tired of thinking myself in circles. I feel tired. And that’s the pattern I’ve noticed with my feelings; that they’re so fleeting and fickle. Once I express them, once I get them out, be it spoken or written, they’re gone. They’re out there, and I’m left with an exhaustion I can’t explain.

I want to go home.

But she’s so far away, forever out of reach. I hold out hope, like a lonely lighthouse at sea, waiting for the sight of a ship—even a boat would do, to take me there…but will it be lost to the mists of time? Who knows.

*blows out the candle*

I’m here

The title reminds me of the song, “I’m still here”, from Treasure Planet. That one always resonated with me; absent father, being a question to the world, every line of the lyrics, you know. But I digress. I had this tiny urge to come here and ramble, so here I am, and the blank page nearly scared me away, lol. I had to start with something, or else, I wouldn’t have started at all.

It’s kind of crazy when things come full circle; I think I know what that means now, finally? You kind of go back all the way to the place things started, but it’s different somehow. These aren’t cycles, more like a spiral, circles stretched across the chronology, reminds me of the Wheel of Fortune; of “what goes up, comes down, and vice versa”. It’s not new. I just remembered how it was a repetitive theme in poetry centuries ago. Anyways, I’ve somehow gone back, I’m probably still going back, and I’m retracing the steps I took that got me here, to the place I am now. It reminds me of how Will went back to Hannibal’s home; to the place the latter couldn’t go.

It’s some sort of reconstruction; of taking the bricks that I took before and turning them this way and that to understand why the younger me used them to build this thing that I’m breaking down brick by brick. It’s a contradiction with my beginning statement, isn’t it? I’m demolishing something, the Ego, but I’m trying to build myself amid the mayhem.

A few nights ago, I was where he was. Thinking myself in circles, until something slammed into me. That question that shakes you to your core: Who am I?

You think you know who you are, but peel back all these terms that make explaining yourself to others easier, and what do you see? What is there at that core?

I was thinking that the lack I see in everything around me, in the world, could perhaps be something that I’m projecting outside. That maybe, there’s this void inside of me. That was what started all of it anyway. And from there, I went to realizing that, at my core, I’m something [?] that reacts to outside entities, be they people, things, etc. because they make me feel things. That something still escapes my grasp, hence the question mark, but maybe it’s the answer is in that void.

It reminds me of a black hole.

The question plaguing me at the time was whether it’s possible for nothing to create something.

You might ask, why nothing? It’s because, well, there’s usually nothing behind masks, and I’ve been wearing mine for a long time.

This is the tower…and it’s burning.

It’s burning. All day. All night. Everyday.

This was what I’d been postponing because, I guess, some instinctive part of me knew what would happen. I was already in too deep and it was already too late.

The first chance presented itself…when? How many years ago did we have our reunion? It already feels like long ago. It always does with you, but at the same time, it never feels enough. Like, it hasn’t been enough time. The way you find yourself wanting more, to spend more time with the other…but I digress.

I squandered it away. I lied, and the saying that goes like “liars have short memory” couldn’t have been more true. I was among them now. The younger me had lied back then, but I made the same mistake again. And then, all those other times.

You were right that it wasn’t just once. It feels like a useless technicality to say, “no, it was twice, three times, four times, and so on.” I guess it’s different for you, and that’s all that matters at the moment. I signed away all the rights I could’ve had by lying when I did, and there’s no going back. The reality of what I did stays and it’s staring back at me, ugly and wretched.

I always read all these stories, urging the characters from the sidelines to tell their significant other about what’s going on—this reminds me of Sherlock yelling at John, “CANT’T YOU SEE WHAT’S GOING ON?!”—and always wondering why they don’t. I always read these other stories thinking to myself, “Who would make such a stupid, stupid mistake?”

Now, it’s blatantly clear.

I would.

I did.

It doesn’t get better. It only gets worse. The smoke is everywhere. You’d think throwing yourself out of the tower would make it go away, but the ground is rising up to meet you, and it’s back to “It’s not falling that kills you, it’s the landing”. I don’t know if I’m still falling or if I’ve landed at the rock bottom in smithereens. That’s a lack of self-awareness for you.

I feel lost. Unmoored. Fuck, why didn’t I see these signs when I was doing a reading last night? You might ask why. Because this is exactly how I felt back then, years ago, when she left. It was a void. Now, it’s heavy. And I can’t stop thinking about how “coming clean makes you feel lighter” is absolute bullshit.

It doesn’t make you feel better. It only makes you feel worse. Because it’s out there now. It’s real. It’s exposed for all to see, evidence of my stupidity; my cowardice, my betrayal, and my selfishness.

I’m among them liars now. Those people who don’t talk when they should. Those people who make godawful mistakes. And it’s not so much as making a mistake, everyone makes mistakes, it’s about postponing the acknowledgment that you did, the shouldering of the responsibility that’s undeniably yours.

It is heavy. (I’m thinking of Sisyphus and his boulder, it’s probably irrelevant) It is a heavy responsibility to set fire to the tower of Babylon.

No title

It’s a bombardment of information right from the get go. You just want to login, get into your fucking blog, get writing, but no. Do you want to enroll in this shiny new wordpress course we’ve got? Click here! We’ve got cookies, do you want them? No? But you have to, otherwise, we’ll bring a shitload of info up that make you regret saying that. So, you agree? Good, now you can proceed to the writing section of our website. But, wait! We have more things we need you to fill out. A title for your post.

I don’t want a fucking title for my post. Dear diary. It’s 31st of August, 2021, and I’m a year closer to my death. What fucking bullshit.

I don’t want to write about that. I don’t want to vent. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I’m discovering that there is somewhere lower than rock bottom when you’re depressed. Color me surprised. No, really, I’m surprised to have made this discovery now, after how many years has it been since I’ve been dealing with it? Honestly, I’ve lost count. Everything is a struggle, more so than before. Anhedonia is taking over everything, and it’s scary. To see the grey seeping color out of everything that matters, that matters so very dearly. Catatonia seems like a much more interesting thing to do. Writing is the only thing that connects me to the world, and I’m…I just don’t care if this post is grammatically correct or not. I do enough of that when I’m writing stories. Fact check, definition check, grammar check.

Enough is enough. There shouldn’t be bounds, but I inevitably find myself shackled by the chains that I wrapped around myself and locked into place.

Freedom seems ever elusive. It’s all about death, has been all about death for a while. Suicide and more death keep springing up from every corner.

Are you done writing? Good. Here, more information, more things for you to do. Do you want to categorize your post? Do you want to add tags?

I’m tired. How can one be so unspeakably tired when one hasn’t done anything in their life? Really, what have I done with the years that I’ve lived? I feel like time has passed me by, and that MBTI tumbler said that it’s a sign of being in a grip. I wouldn’t be surprised. I know that my depression is directly linked to me not having anything in front of me, no purpose, no meaning, nothing. It’s like what they say, when the curtains fall from your eyes, you’ll have a damn hard time trying to live normally like the rest of people do. I wonder if I’m underestimating them, and then, I actually go out and see the ease with which they go about their lives. It all could be a facade though, I’m well aware, but still. Did I make life unspeakably hard for myself? Have I backed myself into a corner with no way out? Is this what it is?

Too many questions, still. How many years has it been? I’m no closer to finding answers. I ventured out again, asked others, total strangers, I shared–got nothing, and went back inside. Closed the door. One of them said, we’re always alone and will be alone, even in our existential pain. No shit, Sherlock. I don’t need someone stating the obvious for me. I need answers, fucking answers, so I can get myself out of this ditch I’ve dug for myself. I NEED THEM.

Nothing feels right. Exhaustion throbs within my bones with every pulse. I read somewhere else that for someone who’s depressed–or maybe it was grieving–waking life is like a reverse nightmare. You find solace in sleep, wake up into a nightmare and wish you could fall back sleep to the real world behind your eyelids. Huh. That’s a good line. I can use it in my story, but I digress. I’m wasting my time here, wasting everyone’s time. A waste of air, a waste of money, a waste of resources.

And now I have to force myself to go shower.

Sad passion is not passion, huh?

Interesting that while feeling sad this came up. Interesting that it was what I had written yesterday…passion.

抱きしめろ

It’s the imperative form of to hug someone, probably means hug me. Why did it came to me now? Even though I was ignorant of its meaning?

Time waits for no one.

I should check if it’s the lyrics to a song. But more importantly…could it be that some things happen only once during a lifetime? If you’re ignorant of them happening, how can you know what you’ve missed? How are you even worthy of it when you’ve missed it? Maybe it wasn’t meant to be seized by you, that opportunity, or whatever it was. Doesn’t everything in this life happen for a reason? Or are cause and effect merely laws belonging to our world, our dimension? Something we’re only bound to, something imagined that we’ve bound ourselves with for fear of facing the music that is the chaos of this world?

Second law of thermodynamics, wasn’t it? The one that said entropy would continuously increase… Yet another law… At every turn, there’s a new pair of lens you can see the world through. All the while, having your own glasses on. It’s…a hopeless notion, isn’t it? Or is there a way to break the Ego? Maybe, in the end, you only manage to recognize where the frames are, the tint of the glass.

I am sad. (Aren’t I perpetually? Huh. Hmph)

It’s just that, saying it is weird. Saying it out loud, to someone else. Wanting to cry in front of someone else, but suddenly realizing that someone has thrown a monkey wrench in the gears. The system’s all locked up, nothing can budge.

It’s weird when you end up laughing when you really don’t want to because the emotions have been running haywire for years.

She has every right to be mad, doesn’t she?

What is wrong with you?

The fight is all over. Has been. Hasn’t it? It didn’t use to look this way. There was a meadow, a town… It’s barren now. Mud mingling with blood like the aftermath of the battle at Sekigahara. But I’m done battling, that’s what I said; however, there’s no guarantee that it’ll be what I’ll end up doing. The sword of anger I used to wield seems like a distant memory now. Did I lose it somewhere in the fray? Did it crumble from all the rust?

A real waste, huh Angeal?

I also said I don’t want my armor anymore. Nothing in between us. Nothing.

What’s behind the mask? What’s left of me, the real me? Do I even know?

I… I feel like, I’m on the right path. Interesting word, coming from my mouth of all people. It’s subjective, you said, or something along those lines. I wonder if all the breaking down and rebuilding of before was all done haphazardly. Am I building now? Or bringing it down, brick by brick? Taking each and turning it this way and that; to examine, to understand. To discard, and to accumulate.

Some days, I see hints of me being like them. Them whom I hate so much. Funny. I just remembered that you said that it’s such a strong word. Hate. Maybe it is. I still want them gone, all of us, gone. Maybe it’s not hate, maybe it’s not even the right word.

Did you mix up your feelings again?

Maybe it’s something borne through understanding. The realization of how much we can do, how much we’ve already done. Maybe, it’s a defense against feeling so powerless in the face of it all. Powerless to put a stop to it all, once and for all. After all, isn’t that what I wish for? What I always end up writing…the end of the world. Beauty beyond measure. Humbling in its magnificence.

That is something I’ve come to accept.

I remember having trouble wrapping my mind around it, when I first read what was awaiting our world. A dark, dead space. I rejected it. My childish brain couldn’t accept that it was all that awaited this beautiful world of colorful nebulae and stars.

Things are so different now.

She should be here somewhere. That little kid. Where did I bury her again?

Hmph… Maybe this is what stream of consciousness is like. Rambling whatever comes to mind and pouring it over paper. I feel like I was going somewhere, but now I’ve lost track of time, of words…

And the wandering soul… Well, let’s hope I can get some sleep tonight.

Deeper insight

I don’t know why I do this to myself. This, this, this staying away from the keyboard, from writing, from listening to music, from playing the piano, from talking to people, from the stream of inspiration.

From sleep at the moment, though my brain is at fault here, even though my eyes burn from wanting to sleep.

I don’t know if other people do this, listen to music they like on the loop for long enough they don’t want to hear it anymore–that’s beside the point–but I do, and then I go for long periods of time not listening, not listening at all…to the point that the songs that I’d had enough of sound foreign to me, to the point that I forget their names–perhaps it’s too much to expect, to remember the names of 1k+ worth of songs, but I digress. I go for long enough to miss music.

I don’t know why I stay away from the keyboard and writing for as long as I do. Perhaps it’s burnout, perhaps it’s because I don’t want to write what I write anymore…but then again, why do I keep thinking about it? Keep thinking about how I want the next chapters go? Writer’s block, I think is what it is, the motivation that ebbs and flows. Perhaps it’s because I can’t sit down for hours without being disturbed, and it does take hours.

And it just occurs to me…addiction, maybe that’s all it comes down to. The high of typing out two chapters worth of words, but you don’t want to overdo it, you don’t want to overdo it, do you? You gotta savor it, lest you get used to it, don’t you? Or…perhaps, it’s addiction to the exquisite pain of missing things that pushes and pulls you…

And I do miss. Miss a lot of things actually.

The piano…I think maybe it was a wrong decision to go for a midi controller; all the wires, all the hooking-ups and the plugging-ins before you can actually hear a sound, the frustration of being unable to play the songs that I want authentically because of the faulty sheet music… It’s all about that idealistic vision, isn’t it? But then again, maybe it’s not time for it yet. Maybe I need to force my life into a more rigid schedule (!)

And I miss people.

I miss my grandparents; if there is an afterlife, I envy them, too. Perhaps, I envy them without the afterlife clause as well, for having gotten rid of this world. I envy them because maybe–if all the mysticism and philosophical mambo-jumbo I’ve amassed in my head is true–they can have answers to all the questions that have been plaguing me for years; they can see what I’ve been yearning to see: the truth.

But will it be the ultimate truth? Not tailored like this one to be pulled over our heads, yet again? I wonder.

I fear that even in death, we won’t be absolutely free. Funny, isn’t it? That to be free equals inexistence, for me, at least. Perhaps the price of freedom is steeper than anyone can pay, fathomlessly so. And yet…

At every nook, at every cranny of this dark place, I keep running into contradictions coexisting together…or maybe it’s a trick of the mind, perceiving things that aren’t there, perceiving things in a way to suit its own narrative…the vision rears its ugly head again, the Ego.

I miss you, even now that I have you with me, and yet you’re still too far away. What you’ve entrusted to me, I hold it in my hand, and wish that my sentiments cross what our physical beings can’t and reach you somehow. I listen to the soft music of it trailing along the chains of my necklace as I move, the weight of it as it dangles and settles against my chest; familiar now, yet new still, never taken for granted, forever cherished. But this, along with my love for you, were meant for the other post that I’ve been composing in my head for months now…which, along with many other words, have yet to see the light of day… Writing. Again.

I wonder, maybe I’ve developed a phobia for blank white screens and sheets of paper.

Ah, yes, sheets of paper…and ideas that circulate in my brain, projects conceived yet never born. White noise, what an elusive concept for a brain that constantly churns… The music listen to, to drown its voice. Sometimes it distracts, without even raising the volume to ear-splitting heights that are never enough, and sometimes…

The longing is what silences it because it lances at my heart, my very being; it’s past heartfelt because it beckons me to a place I don’t even know, to a state I’ve never experienced, but it’s familiar…the feeling. It’s what I chase, blindly…like the child Rammstein talks about, creeping forward, because it smells the scent…

The tears, I miss; I used to sit there, crying as I played the tune over and over… I miss it, the song with no notes, no name that my tutor taught me, that I relied solely on muscle memory to play. It’s the longing that it plucked within me with it that I miss…

I miss the feeling of being a puzzle piece finally being fit into its place…between the notes of music, and the words I type–my passions, I wonder–is that where I belong?

Missing what you haven’t had, what you haven’t experienced…perhaps that’s my forte. Better yet, perhaps that’s where I’ll find my home yet. Not in one thing or two, but maybe with.

What’s going on?

There’s a multitude of questions circulating in the haze of mind, doubt lingering heavy in the nooks and crannies, and clarity seems like a mere dream forever out of reach. I’m wading aimlessly in the sea, drenched by the waves crashing against me and sometimes pulled under only to resurface once again, spewing out water.

Is this what happens when you relinquish control?

I fidget ceaselessly, picking at my lips or constantly rubbing my thumb against my forefinger. Stress, it’s a sign of stress, that’s what I tell myself. But is it? A couple weeks ago, I was having problems falling asleep in my room, the shadow of something threatening looming over me; and I’d leave to sleep in the living room just so I could get a few hours of shuteye. Stress? I don’t know. A brain with no creative outlet turning on itself? I don’t know that either. Fëanáro told me that it was a sign of oppression, a step before being possessed by demons, and I scoffed. But what if it is? You see, doubt.

Doubt, doubt, doubt. It feels opaque in my head, so much so that I don’t know why I do things the way I do. During the past few months, I’ve tried a multitude of things–was that to keep myself occupied due to sheer boredom of having to wait?–and I wonder if I’ve somehow stretched myself too thin; I pick them up, fiddle with them for some time, and throw them aside, and onto the next thing that catches my eye. So, what’s going on? Is it an inferior grip, since I just started delving into cognitive function shit and I should put it to good use?

The sea is depression. I have periods of neutral mood, but then I crash, and it repeats over and over again. And I’m tired, I’m tired of this roller coaster. I’m tired of waking up everyday, eating, hanging out with everybody, eating again, spend some time doing the things I actually like, and then rinse repeat. I don’t want to have to worry about what to make for lunch and dinner again and again. Aren’t there more important matters out there to be constantly worried about? I would sleep forever if I could. I’d kill myself and get it all over with if I hadn’t promised myself to wait until the time was right.

And since I’ve decided to dissect my psyche, my brain is asking me why? Why? WHY? I don’t know if I have answers. Maybe if I write them down it’d help.

Writing seems to have become some sort of a life line for me, something that I reach for and grasp when I’m wallowing too much and for too long…something that its absence leaves me feeling off. A means of self-expression, that’s what it is, isn’t it? I used to draw, I used to invent things when I was a child, but I stopped. I stopped because I couldn’t bring into life that which I was envisioning in my head; it was always lacking. It’s not so with writing…the characters sometimes surprise me, and the paintbrush of words is much more precise in recreating what I see in my head.

But I digress. Or maybe not, because it marginally feels better now. Maybe I shouldn’t keep myself bottled up for too long, but the desire to place my hands on the keyboard wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was there, just buried… I’m trying to figure it out.

Alive, But even in Death

사랑해선 안될 사람이라고
이제 그만 어서 돌아서라고
미련조차 나의 등을 떠미는가봐

지워내도 지워지지가 않아
미워해도 미워지지가 않아
그리움만 더해 가는걸

너를 사랑하기가 난 너무나 아파
숨도 못쉴만큼 힘에 겹지만

천번 만번 태어나도 또 다시 널 사랑해
그저 너 없이는 나 안돼 난안돼 내사랑

늘 멀리 있다 해도 너 외로워마
살아도 죽어도 내마음
항상 네곁에 남아 있을테니까

혹시 눈물이라도 또 새어 나올까바
차마 사랑한단 말 못했지만

천번 만번 태어나도 또 다시 널 사랑해
그저 너 없이는 나 안돼 난안돼 내사랑

늘 멀리 있다 해도 너 외로워마
살아도 죽어도 내마음
항상 네곁에 남아 있을테니까

난 언제든 지금 같은 마음일꺼야
일년후 널 십년후 널 백년후 널
변하지 않을 이사랑 이대로
영원보다 더 오래 지켜 갈께

천년 만년 흘러가도 내사랑은 너뿐이야
내가 어떻게 널 잊어 못잊어 나의 사랑
늘 어긋난다 해도 너 울지는 마
이별도 세월도 죽음도
가를수 없는 우리 사랑이니까

Fëanáro

I’ve been mulling over this post and the parameters surrounding it for a couple or so days now, if not about a week.

I had a brush with a type of insanity that I hadn’t come across before. It was enlightening to say the least. If I were to liken it to something, it’d be like walking or swimming through a pool of shit; being bogged down by it, trying not to slip, trying to keep yourself afloat, always keep your head above the surface of it. It’s the perfect analogy by all accounts. To say that it didn’t affect me would be a lie, but it’s not in the sense that it made me sad, that it made me miss it. Nothing nostalgic or sentimental, no. I had been looking for reasons, excuses to put an end to it. It had been a long time in coming.

She gave me a handful, every time. I would thank her for it, but I don’t really feel inclined to be grateful. Not really.

It affected me because I was hoping for an equanimous, unanimous teamwork. It affected me because the potential for it was there, in those glimpses of smart, the difference in viewpoints and tastes despite the hypocrisy, despite the ‘try to impress senpai through pretense’ attitude. I’ve come to realize that I despise seeing potential go to waste, and there was a lot more I could wring out of this one…at the same time that I’d known that she’s outlived her purpose.

I thought about the possibilities, the probability of me not fully grasping the angles of what happened, of not seeing it in its entirety and only through a limited purview because that’s what I always do. Even if it’s a human thing to do, my hate for them notwithstanding, then so be it. It’s not to delude, it’s not to blame; it’s to try and understand, try to shed the inevitable bias that comes as part of the ‘human’ package as I do it.

I had already reached a consensus, I had already returned to my normality when she conceded and it was the cherry on top. The prospect of continuation of the game was there, dangling, but I had already decided to ignore her. Maybe it’s common sense, maybe it’s not; but I think there’s merit in knowing when to stop; in knowing when enough is enough, in knowing when to abort the game.

And it was how I made it off with my silmarillion. Her lies remind me of Ungoliant’s webs, but all in all, she reminds me more of Fëanáro. The desperation, the craziness…the pursuit, the toxicity and the negativity of the final days. Minus the fiery nature of spirit, if there ever was one. The notes on my phone further affirm that, even though they were months apart. I’m glad that Melkor the musician got rid of him, just as I’m glad to get rid of her.

It would have been nice if the real Melkor had too, but then again…that’s subject to interpretation.