ym533

[ym533]

Nothing New; a disorienting evening nap

It's been a while since I wrote, as it's been a while since I last felt like writing. I had an awesome past few days. Well, in a blinding sort of way. My stomach is stuffed after days of indulgent eating. I think I feel some collecting weight straining the skin of my arms and thighs, aside from the fullness that I feel in my torso. Today, I failed to get any work done. The day before today, I spent almost entirely with my friends as we laughed from day to night. I think it was a surreal kind of laughing. I felt almost like we were freshmen—or happy campers on our summer trip's final night. I don't remember much about the days prior to that. All I know is that, almost entirely, I must have felt like I was spinning. I found myself getting too caught up with life. I must have completely forgotten about many things, among them would be my desire to die. I nearly tricked myself into imagining the rest of my life. I almost pined for it. I don't know what to do with that, now. Well, things like these happen to me all the time as I tend to be quite easily carried away. It's not odd for me to so quickly lose sight of many things—those from responsibilities to ambitions, included.

I had more things to say in mind, but I might just have to continue this. I think my mind's starting to wander now, and I sort of want to let it. It's also been a while since I had any space for thoughts, too.

[ym533]

Scott Street; screen after a midnight nap

There isn't anything—not one thing—that makes sense about what I am trying to do. I have it good. There is no reason for which a person such as I could think of ending their life. In fact, I could name many a barrier to such a commitment, given that I have made one. There is not a single person that I hold space for in my life who would not care about me. I have exceedingly devoted parents. I have concerned and providing siblings. I have friends who may go after me as they see me start to run. I have extended family and other inherited relations who will wonder why I've gone. I have schoolmates and contemporaries who will raise questions about what they're seeing of me. For those of these people who regard me as a friend or acquaintance, I would guess that they may find my behaviour peculiar. I wonder what they'll think of me, for these types of friends never see much of my mind.

I think my death might make the news, particularly if pursue the idea of disappearing first. I think my death might reach an unreasonable height in the news. I would hate for that to happen. Although, I also feel it might not—for shame. Beyond my warped sense of isolation, I can tell it is true that people care for me. In fact, I isolate myself with a solemn concession that I show disregard for how people around me might feel. I owe something to them, some would have me believe. I have heard it said to me. They have bent their backs over satisfying me and, so, I owe them. They have given me all the love that there is to give in the world and, so, I owe them. I can't see how that might be true. To me, things like love or devotion can only truly be given when you aren't expecting anything for them, in return. But, I digress there.

Each day, I walk about with my perfect little life. I have a heartful of food to keep me warm and satisfied. I walk out the door withholding goodbyes to those who wish they'd heard more from me. I dress well enough. I can pass for beautiful, albeit with some work, and I perform presentably enough in the roles where I am. At least, I could argue for that case. There are regular preoccupations that entertain me. There are people that accept me and, despite my stubborn confusion at this fact, seek me out for camaraderie. There are people who want me—that, alone, I know is a lot that many ask for. Then, when the day is done, I have a home I return to where I am loved like a child. I am so loved like a child that I sometimes wonder at all why I reject this love so. So many people would ask for half of what I have. Many, perhaps, have died over being denied this. Yet, here I am, somehow appearing to need more while at the same time assuming I deserve less. Funny.

I don't doubt that pain will ensue after my death. I also don't doubt that my choices will earn me scorn. I don't really think much of any of this. From the start, how other people needed me was totally out of the question. I didn't need them, after all. At least, I tell myself that. The compromise I can reach, most reasonably, is that I can rest with their disapproval if it means I won't need to live with their loss. I, quite literally, would rather die than have somebody whom I even question loving die before me. The severed ties to the turmoil might drive me mad. They also might not. I hope I'll never need to know which is true.

Perhaps, what I can say for sure about what I feel the most right now, is that I wish people had less to do with me. I wish I could be allowed to merely pass through. I wish I could more freely walk out of doors. I wish I could go through the motions without anybody else asking me to live. I wish there wasn't anybody who assumed I would live. Is this my asking for total abandonment? I wonder the same. Perhaps, with this, I am simply reacting to the pinches I feel when I walk against the strings that tie me back to life. One would wish to cut them off, with not much thought to what it must really feel like to be left to float—or fall. I don't think it's falling, it's drifting. I wonder if I could give that a try. Although, I know there won't be any going back if I did untie or cut myself loose. I know not everyone will be so accommodating of the experiment. People aren't so elastic, and I know I will be the last person that can be called such. That, in other news, may be part of my problems. I digress again. Given how things may be, I choose to go anyway. Maybe everything I'm wondering about won't amount to anything at all. I know that's how I would prefer it, and I won't turn back on my word and hope I had it differently. Whatever may be, the only way I can see things play out is to keep going on. So, go on, I will.

[Editor's Note: This was not edited and might be open to additions.]

[ym533]

Only Time; ocean as far as I can see

I can tell that things will be different now—compared to every other time I had promised to embark on my journey yet had fallen short— because of two things. Firstly, they just have to be different now. I'm running out of time and I need things to speed up. Really, what I need the most is the assurance that whatever I start now, I can commit to.

I know I'm not doing anything profound. I'm just a person who wants to end their life. Any excuses I manage to drum up toward this will be flowers around my grave—if I'm lucky enough to think of something presentable. But, who says I need to think up a garland? Why says life has to be so conclusive, so certainly intelligible, and so explicit of its fruition? I think one would be lucky—and I mean lucky—to have the luxury of believing that life is theirs to make. That people have even a chance of trying to make sense of their lives and even control it. But, I feel I'm being disingenuous now. I could be running my mouth, and I could be showing my defensiveness. This can't really be what I think, can it? I am distracted and too tired to think properly. My eyelids are drooping and my hand is falling short of writing syllables, my words can't keep up with my mind, and my mind isn't really doing much of anything, actually. I simply told myself I had to write on, whatever the case. I just need some time to rest, and then think. But, I would like to sometime pick up where I had left off—the presumed intention of life.

[ym533]

I want to interject and say it could seem really petty of me to think that my life has to end just because I never amounted to everything I thought I would. Well, I choose to rest assured of the knowledge that that isn't all of it. Although, I also can't deny that this may be a part of the true reasons. I suppose I'm not that mature. No, that much was always obvious. As of now, I can't think too much about all the other reasons for my commitment to a self-imposed death, either. Another one of them, perhaps, could be generally phrased as "I don't want to be here for any of this, anymore." What I also know is that at different stages of my deliberation over this plan—from when this great idea was first conceived a few years ago, to today—there have been many reasons for this vocation which we fixated on, at various times. It's difficult to put them on a list. Some of them may coexist with others on the same line of thinking. None of that really gives me any defense against the allegations of being frivolous. Oh well, I can't say I'm not used to seeming in a poor state of mind—out of my mind, entirely.

Viva la Vida; a spinning ballpen

She would have been a writer. The sight of my brand new Fuschia-pink Mitsubishi pen spinning between my fingers made me think of her. Rather, the stark but foggy reflection of that spinning pen on my airplane seat's media set⁠—perfectly catching how the light dances on the pen's body⁠—made me think of her. No⁠—thinking about her, and then seeing the twirling pen glinting brightly against the media set⁠, made me think of myself. I would have been a great writer if I had only just sat on it. I could have been a great many-a-thing if I had just believed I could be, and then dedicated myself to improving at it. I know this because I was that, once. Well, I was just a kid. A kid can only be so great. That, and I know I particularly couldn't have been so impressive. Call me deluded, then. Anyway, anybody could have been great at anything if they only tried hard enough. I've heard it said, and maybe it's true. Perhaps anybody else had just as good of a chance as I at being anything, and it isn't my loss alone that I never became the things I thought I could be⁠. I could list a couple of these things, down, but I hesitate. Although, I know there is a grain of truth behind why I might assume these are things I would have been. After all, why not just throw other random things into the list? Why even list at all?

I think the answer is simple, and it really isn't worth stressing about. All these, in my imaginary list, are things I believed I would be. These ambitions represent the kinds of people whom I deeply desired to be. Above all, these were models that I was already starting to become. I wouldn't pine for nothing. I knew I had fair chances, somehow. Really, leaving it at that would be an understatement. These achievements were well underway. As I said before—if I had only just never stopped.

The experiences I recognised my life for the most, somehow, seemed abruptly brought to an end. I could feign my denial of this, but I do know why what's happened has happened. But, that isn't the point. At least, I would hate for that to be the point of this all. I have given myself too much time to wallow in regret and self-pity. I have lent enough of my energy to nostalgia. To miss, or not to miss? To restore, or not to restore? These are questions I had once asked myself. But now, I am narrow-minded. Perhaps, I am even more narrow-minded now than I had already thought I was being before. These new things of life may come as they may, and I will have a place for them in the great marathon toward the end. There is no more use for crying over anything—not that there ever really was. The most I can do from here on is try to believe I won't regret all these choices I am making. That said, I can never try if I never get started. That being true, I will start.

[ym533]

Viva la Vida; a spinning ballpen

She would have been a writer. The sight of my brand new Fuschia-pink Mitsubishi pen spinning between my fingers made me think of her. Rather, the stark but foggy reflection of that spinning pen on my airplane seat's media set⁠—perfectly catching how the light dances on the pen's body⁠—made me think of her. No⁠—thinking about her, and then seeing the twirling pen glinting brightly against the media set⁠, made me think of myself. I would have been a great writer if I had only just sat on it. I could have been a great many-a-thing if I had just believed I could be, and then dedicated myself to improving at it. I know this because I was that, once. Well, I was just a kid. A kid can only be so great. That, and I know I particularly couldn't have been so impressive. Call me deluded, then. Anyway, anybody could have been great at anything if they only tried hard enough. I've heard it said, and maybe it's true. Perhaps anybody else had just as good of a chance as I at being anything, and it isn't my loss alone that I never became the things I thought I could be⁠. I could list a couple of these things, down, but I hesitate. Although, I know there is a grain of truth behind why I might assume these are things I would have been. After all, why not just throw other random things into the list? Why even list at all?

I think the answer is simple, and it really isn't worth stressing about. All these, in my imaginary list, are things I believed I would be. These ambitions represent the kinds of people whom I deeply desired to be. Above all, these were models that I was already starting to become. I wouldn't pine for nothing. I knew I had fair chances, somehow. Really, leaving it at that would be an understatement. These achievements were well underway. As I said before—if I had only just never stopped.

The experiences I recognised my life for the most, somehow, seemed abruptly brought to an end. I could feign my denial of this, but I do know why what's happened has happened. But, that isn't the point. At least, I would hate for that to be the point of this all. I have given myself too much time to wallow in regret and self-pity. I have lent enough of my energy to nostalgia. To miss, or not to miss? To restore, or not to restore? These are questions I had once asked myself. But now, I am narrow-minded. Perhaps, I am even more narrow-minded now than I had already thought I was being before. These new things of life may come as they may, and I will have a place for them in the great marathon toward the end. There is no more use for crying over anything—not that there ever really was. The most I can do from here on is try to believe I won't regret all these choices I am making. That said, I can never try if I never get started. That being true, I will start.

[ym533]

Perhaps I can start writing a blog. Anne Frank wouldn't have written in a notebook, forever, right? But, a notebook is a good place to start. It satisfies the itch for me to move my wrist and grip a pen. I like to feel the friction of jotting down thoughts that arise in sounds faster than I can say. Anne Frank was a good writer. She had things to say, to say the least. Although, some would argue that she couldn't have less to write about. What is there to do, see, or say about the daily life of being all cooped up in a house, for two years? I guess it all depends on what you classify as worthy of writing, or not. That is, what you would find thought-provoking. This set of ideas or experiences could be different for everyone. I would rather have too much to say about everything than too little to think of, though. I wonder if my relatively individualistic childhood had something to do with that. I arguably was surrounded by fewer stimuli than the average child, which could have meant I had more room in my mind for insulated thought. I had plenty of time to stare out from the back of cars and ponder about my surroundings, or to read books and wonder about other people's lives. Or, I simply had the time to make any space one for my head to subsume my senses. I will be able to do that again. I will. I have also given myself to the way this world works, and I leave it with the belief that such a way is worth defying. I would reject the fanfare of this world if it means turning my ears, instead, to the rediscovery of a quiet that I've heard only from myself. This is the humming of one who watches, listens, thinks, and writes. This humming was drowned in the clacking of one who works, the strutting of one who goes, the drumming of one who delivers, and the sighing of one who provides. The humming does not grow, and I doubt it disappears. Perhaps it does not get older; it probably never moves with the grooves of the city. The humming is a timeless spectator that is present until you stop listening to it. That's all I wish to be—gone, in some capacity.

(Editing Note: This is one long paragraph that I barely understand. I wonder if I'll understand it sooner or further in the future, though.)

Life in Technicolor; an airplane window

Words run dry⁠ when, here, I thought I had already been using them in excess. I guess penning words onto a page is quite different from sneezing them out once they tickle you. I suppose peeling and drying out pages of yourself is far more uncomfortable than idly tossing thoughts into a pond, with their traces gone after a deniable ripple. I used to speak to myself, and I would listen. Sadly, it seems that I had lately lost interest in hearing my own voice—or, perhaps, having one entirely. It deceived me, maybe, the idea that instantly exhausting anything that came to mind was introspection enough. This may have been it because, otherwise, I can't sit with the possibility of my having genuinely given up believing in the need to hear myself think.

Whatever the case may be, I can't be surprised, then, that it may seem like I have nothing to say now. But, there is something there; I know it. There always has been, and I could go on about the origins of this idea. I could go on about everywhere I've been⁠ and all the things I had seen, what little and what lot I had lived through, and what I know now that I wish I had written down then. Thinking about that invites my tears. For that reason, it doesn't appeal to me to look back. In fact, I'd closed those chapters. At least, I'd dropped the pen on them. I may revisit them, someday. But, that day won't be today.

I'm going on an adventure, and I'm not looking back. This would be a final long haul⁠—a last stand against, or for, my life. The end—I feel it's near. It always seems to have been, relatively lately. This is all that it will come to, and it will be happy. It will be typical. It will knock a few people out of breath. It will prompt a search for answers. But people will realise that, with one look at me and anything one can know me for, this all makes sense. It's dramatic. It's over the top. It's uncalled for⁠—totally unnecessary. It's astounding. It's unique. It's meant to be profound. It likely can't be looked away from, and I won't try to make myself discreet. It's been a while since I'd known myself very well, but I'd assume these qualities characteristically applied to me, right?

The last thing this will be is impulsive⁠—not well-thought-through, beyond reason, or unintelligible. That will be uncharacteristic of me. That would make me ask "Is this really going to be it? Is this really going to be what everything amounts to? Is this the end for which I was living?" I might discuss, later on, the moments when I had set a foot on death's doorstep only to be met with this question. It dared me to recall that, primarily, I wanted to end my life⁠—not cause my death. It reminded me of the value of the wait. So, I got it together.

Sure, there were times when I might have thought that the potential absurdity of it all would colour nicely against the backdrop of my otherwise highly organised and rigidly rationalised life. Although, when you put it that way, the supposed nonsense of it all would sort of cancel out, right? So, we'll leave that notion behind us, for now.

[ym533]

I wish my handwriting were legible enough, or aesthetically pleasing enough, to suit how valuable this notebook is. It cost me an awful lot. That goes for this pen, too. I guess where I'm not overly thoughtful, I can be pretty careless. I should have bought what I needed back in the city, as soon as I thought of needing them. I should have bought these in any place but an airport, really. So much for "duty-free".

I used to fancy myself a writer. That's not true—I wrote an entire essay once where I think my point was that I wasn't a writer. Instead, I argued that I was just somebody who wrote and enjoyed writing. Just about anybody can write, really. I think it takes the adoption of a particular process, as well as a certain degree of dedication, for a person to be considered a writer. I never had that, I would guess. It probably never seemed like a viable use of my time to turn this hobby into a discipline. Besides, I thought I would end up finding that my words easily run dry, anyway. I figured I can only write about so much. That, or I'd get too caught up in the ropes of trying to keep this preoccupation afloat as a total vocation. Passing this up is alright. It's not much lost, anyway, I would think. I likely won't even have the skill.

Perhaps writing is a "you have it, or you don't" sort of skill. More than it requires skill, I would think the discipline of writing requires a creative or at least romantic capacity. I could work on that. Perhaps the more I close myself off from stimuli and listen to my thoughts echo off each other, I'll be able to see the world from a vantage point balanced between the urge to retreat from the world and swallow it whole—to paint it or set it on fire; to die as it unfolds it or to distantly outlast it. Before any of that can happen, though, I'll need to fix my handwriting. Or else, not even I will be able to decipher my own ideas. That would be a pity because it's happened a couple of times before.

Life in Technicolor; an airplane window

Words run dry⁠ when, here, I thought I had already been using them in excess. I guess penning words onto a page is quite different from sneezing them out once they tickle you. I suppose peeling and drying out pages of yourself is far more uncomfortable than idly tossing thoughts into a pond, with their traces gone after a deniable ripple. I used to speak to myself, and I would listen. Sadly, it seems that I had lately lost interest in hearing my own voice—or, perhaps, having one entirely. It deceived me, maybe, the idea that instantly exhausting anything that came to mind was introspection enough. This may have been it because, otherwise, I can't sit with the possibility of my having genuinely given up believing in the need to hear myself think.

Whatever the case may be, I can't be surprised, then, that it may seem like I have nothing to say now. But, there is something there; I know it. There always has been, and I could go on about the origins of this idea. I could go on about everywhere I've been⁠ and all the things I had seen, what little and what lot I had lived through, and what I know now that I wish I had written down then. Thinking about that invites my tears. For that reason, it doesn't appeal to me to look back. In fact, I'd closed those chapters. At least, I'd dropped the pen on them. I may revisit them, someday. But, that day won't be today.

I'm going on an adventure, and I'm not looking back. This would be a final long haul⁠—a last stand against, or for, my life. The end—I feel it's near. It always seems to have been, relatively lately. This is all that it will come to, and it will be happy. It will be typical. It will knock a few people out of breath. It will prompt a search for answers. But people will realise that, with one look at me and anything one can know me for, this all makes sense. It's dramatic. It's over the top. It's uncalled for⁠—totally unnecessary. It's astounding. It's unique. It's meant to be profound. It likely can't be looked away from, and I won't try to make myself discreet. It's been a while since I'd known myself very well, but I'd assume these qualities characteristically applied to me, right?

The last thing this will be is impulsive⁠—not well-thought-through, beyond reason, or unintelligible. That will be uncharacteristic of me. That would make me ask "Is this really going to be it? Is this really going to be what everything amounts to? Is this the end for which I was living?" I might discuss, later on, the moments when I had set a foot on death's doorstep only to be met with this question. It dared me to recall that, primarily, I wanted to end my life⁠—not cause my death. It reminded me of the value of the wait. So, I got it together.

Sure, there were times when I might have thought that the potential absurdity of it all would colour nicely against the backdrop of my otherwise highly organised and rigidly rationalised life. Although, when you put it that way, the supposed nonsense of it all would sort of cancel out, right? So, we'll leave that notion behind us, for now.

[ym533]

Another thought I had about this is how I started⁠—at least, finally started⁠—in the middle. I seem to have seriously started to put things into motion when everything else had already begun. Typical, as well, I would guess, for me to be half-asleep through the starter gunshot. Or, to hear it and move begrudgingly sluggishly—just to make it to the side that ends the race. Getting up and going through the motions⁠, to do so is much easier than putting up a fight. What's more, in a state like that, what would I have to feel like fighting for, anyway?

By some miracle, however, in the end, I always feel like going on. I churn against rust to get a start until I can think of doing nothing but pursue the tracks some more⁠—to keep on going and to go as far as I can, at a pace that's unimaginable for someone who hadn't wanted to get a start in the first place. I tend to be funny like that. Now, it would be just the same. It's been a few days into a year I never asked for⁠, but I'm bargaining to be able to say that it's only just begun and that my plans aren't too far behind. I know it could be that way if I only just decided so. Time, in days and years, doesn't really exist. I know that.

Life in Technicolor; an airplane window

Words run dry⁠ when, here, I thought I had already been using them in excess. I guess penning words onto a page is quite different from sneezing them out once they tickle you. I suppose peeling and drying out pages of yourself is far more uncomfortable than idly tossing thoughts into a pond, with their traces gone after a deniable ripple. I used to speak to myself, and I would listen. Sadly, it seems that I had lately lost interest in hearing my own voice—or, perhaps, having one entirely. It deceived me, maybe, the idea that instantly exhausting anything that came to mind was introspection enough. This may have been it because, otherwise, I can't sit with the possibility of my having genuinely given up believing in the need to hear myself think.

Whatever the case may be, I can't be surprised, then, that it may seem like I have nothing to say now. But, there is something there; I know it. There always has been, and I could go on about the origins of this idea. I could go on about everywhere I've been⁠ and all the things I had seen, what little and what lot I had lived through, and what I know now that I wish I had written down then. Thinking about that invites my tears. For that reason, it doesn't appeal to me to look back. In fact, I'd closed those chapters. At least, I'd dropped the pen on them. I may revisit them, someday. But, that day won't be today.

I'm going on an adventure, and I'm not looking back. This would be a final long haul⁠—a last stand against, or for, my life. The end—I feel it's near. It always seems to have been, relatively lately. This is all that it will come to, and it will be happy. It will be typical. It will knock a few people out of breath. It will prompt a search for answers. But people will realise that, with one look at me and anything one can know me for, this all makes sense. It's dramatic. It's over the top. It's uncalled for⁠—totally unnecessary. It's astounding. It's unique. It's meant to be profound. It likely can't be looked away from, and I won't try to make myself discreet. It's been a while since I'd known myself very well, but I'd assume these qualities characteristically applied to me, right?

The last thing this will be is impulsive⁠—not well-thought-through, beyond reason, or unintelligible. That will be uncharacteristic of me. That would make me ask "Is this really going to be it? Is this really going to be what everything amounts to? Is this the end for which I was living?" I might discuss, later on, the moments when I had set a foot on death's doorstep only to be met with this question. It dared me to recall that, primarily, I wanted to end my life⁠—not cause my death. It reminded me of the value of the wait. So, I got it together.

Sure, there were times when I might have thought that the potential absurdity of it all would colour nicely against the backdrop of my otherwise highly organised and rigidly rationalised life. Although, when you put it that way, the supposed nonsense of it all would sort of cancel out, right? So, we'll leave that notion behind us, for now.

[ym533]

Life in Technicolor; an airplane window

Words run dry⁠ when, here, I thought I had already been using them in excess. I guess penning words onto a page is quite different from sneezing them out once they tickle you. I suppose peeling and drying out pages of yourself is far more uncomfortable than idly tossing thoughts into a pond, with their traces gone after a deniable ripple. I used to speak to myself, and I would listen. Sadly, it seems that I had lately lost interest in hearing my own voice—or, perhaps, having one entirely. It deceived me, maybe, the idea that instantly exhausting anything that came to mind was introspection enough. This may have been it because, otherwise, I can't sit with the possibility of my having genuinely given up believing in the need to hear myself think.

Whatever the case may be, I can't be surprised, then, that it may seem like I have nothing to say now. But, there is something there; I know it. There always has been, and I could go on about the origins of this idea. I could go on about everywhere I've been⁠ and all the things I had seen, what little and what lot I had lived through, and what I know now that I wish I had written down then. Thinking about that invites my tears. For that reason, it doesn't appeal to me to look back. In fact, I'd closed those chapters. At least, I'd dropped the pen on them. I may revisit them, someday. But, that day won't be today.

I'm going on an adventure, and I'm not looking back. This would be a final long haul⁠—a last stand against, or for, my life. The end—I feel it's near. It always seems to have been, relatively lately. This is all that it will come to, and it will be happy. It will be typical. It will knock a few people out of breath. It will prompt a search for answers. But people will realise that, with one look at me and anything one can know me for, this all makes sense. It's dramatic. It's over the top. It's uncalled for⁠—totally unnecessary. It's astounding. It's unique. It's meant to be profound. It likely can't be looked away from, and I won't try to make myself discreet. It's been a while since I'd known myself very well, but I'd assume these qualities characteristically applied to me, right?

The last thing this will be is impulsive⁠—not well-thought-through, beyond reason, or unintelligible. That will be uncharacteristic of me. That would make me ask "Is this really going to be it? Is this really going to be what everything amounts to? Is this the end for which I was living?" I might discuss, later on, the moments when I had set a foot on death's doorstep only to be met with this question. It dared me to recall that, primarily, I wanted to end my life⁠—not cause my death. It reminded me of the value of the wait. So, I got it together.

Sure, there were times when I might have thought that the potential absurdity of it all would colour nicely against the backdrop of my otherwise highly organised and rigidly rationalised life. Although, when you put it that way, the supposed nonsense of it all would sort of cancel out, right? So, we'll leave that notion behind us, for now.

[ym533]