01.

I lied. 

I make grand plans, promises into the world only for it to be stepped over by my zombified state of mind. 

But it doesn’t help that I struggle to climb over the first stage of acceptance, is it? Like trying to will yourself out of warm water, into a much colder lake. What if the lake is your only chance of survival? 

Well, it's been years of me saying the same statements to myself. It's also been years of me dragging my feet, not even attempting to take any action, or taking the smallest steps and criticizing my own process. My own progress, absolutely stupidity to hate myself like that. Where does that get me when I actively beat myself up? 

I'm convinced that I am comforted by living in an environment that is shitty, because it's some warped nostalgia, this cosy corner that has Stockholm'd me into submission.  

There was a time in college where I would hold my dear friend’s hand as the start of a new month arrived. If there is one greater fear I have, it is of time. 

That's one thing about me. My fears are so idiotic sometimes, I really wish I was afraid of something normal. Like spiders. 

But I get it, I know. I need to be kind to myself. It's even more important now that I am kind to my body, I'm watching myself actively grow more in pain. I'm probably addicted to it now, most likely. Addicted to dissociating so much on a daily basis. Not helping myself by airing out dirty laundry, but isn't that was this is for? What writing and poetry and art are for - the act of artistic expression is designed to be a release of bottle up emotions, which to the eyes of someone outside of your body and mind, can be beautiful. 

Here's another one:

War is fantasized as it was a beacon of light in the uncertainly of human existence. War gave humans a role, a side, a reason to wake up. Life or death are the choices that humans have the more certainty with. The glory days of humanity cannot be without standing in pools of their own blood and the enemies. 

Nations have an addiction to self harm. 

Okay. I've done what I can today. Something hurts somewhere inside me. 

The first of November is a heave of air, the twitch of a strained muscle. The marathon is reaching a corner. 

02. 

He's an echo of the past. But my brain betrays me in many ways. 

It's too warm when I slip out of unconsciousness, even with the window cracked open. Bitter cold air streams into my room and the ground feels dead when my hands and feet press into it. This hazardous dream fogs my headspace, flood it with nostalgia so overwhelming it stings eyes I have yet to have, and leaves as I leave the bedroom. 

I can't remember his face, only the one I saw years ago. It's not that young anymore, I'm sure. The fact that after all these years I still think about him - or is it really him at this point, but someone I've created in my own head? A figment of what I'd hope would happen to him, maybe.

Online I find those same fragments. Frozen in time. Whispers of memories start to arise from the sea of consciousness like bodies. Floating to the surface. Pictures of a much younger face from the corpse of a time that has been picked clean of its flesh. 

Stranger yet, I have a hard time forgetting his eyes. His voice. Strained and full of an odd resentment. His clothing and mannerisms a complete contrast to mine. His name was spoken between my parents with unease, as if he was a worrying report on the news. Obviously it wasn't taught on me to follow the footsteps of people who abused themselves with substances at a young age - but what did I care? I'd already witnessed how it would end, and my mortality was so far ahead of me all I could focus was the smile he'd share behind closed doors. 

Replaying the past clues in that he was my first bully. But that wasn't true for very long. Being in such a small town, in a small school, you realize that people hide parts of themselves to the world. Despite the vile nature of his words, despite the bruises on himself, I was not a witness to the violence but of the aftermath. Picking up the pieces left behind, I saw in the reflections that we had a lot more in common than I assumed. 

A beloved book series that I also enjoyed - betraying my persona of him. Surely not, him? How could we be reading the same series? It wasn't until I found another drawer of his. 

I found his stories. Buried beneath all of the smoke and liquid was a phenomenon that would alter the way I see the sharpness of teeth in a beast; all of the pain and I can't ignore the beauty that nature has. 

He was a brilliant, bloody artist. 

His presence had, to my surprise, embedded itself much deeper into my subconscious than I'd thought. Merely another passing friend in a sea of interactions, but now... It's been years, and he still crosses through my dreams. Not terribly often. But enough to be reminded of him. As if my brain nudges me with - hey, look, it's that friend you used to know!

I'd had enough that morning. I want him out of my dreams. I need him out. 

To cut the string, or tie it around my wrist. I must choose. 

I need to find him.