How Your Only Convoluted Friendship Creates A Character

This is Estara’s viewpoint of Leian, two of my characters in my stories. They fall in love with each other at an inopportune time in their lives, and end up causing a lot of misfortune because of it. I’m already aware of the subconscious connections this has to my own life, which is why I’m writing my personal introspection down. This analysis may end up doubling as a message to someone I used to know. That will, however, depend on if he even reads this diary or not.

I don’t wonder too much about your decisions. I realize that you’re choosing this path, and I should have no say in it. Yet, I still have myself to deal with, and when I wake up from dreams seeing you there, it would be mentally damaging to pretend you’re nothing.

So I find myself writing about you, aware of the cliff I’m perched on. Many things can be assumed of me by giving you this space in my head. I hope you are not one that assumes.

Truth is, I can’t hate you. You did all this to force me to move on from you. When pieced together, my memories recall a boy way too introverted, shy, and sensitive to ever do what ended up happening to me. It seems more like you ran away from yourself. To be hateful of that, I have to convince myself you changed into an entirely different person, and saw me as your metaphorical past which you had to escape. You didn’t want to be reminded of me anymore so you created a new self, a new personality, with a new set of strangely unique quirks.

And as you ran, I became Nothing.

I have to wonder if you thought I’d be okay… because I have to believe that boy is in there, hoping I will be okay. But what do I know of this…? Your judgment is that the past doesn’t have to affect your present self. This is true, but you have to truly know who you are first before your past doesn’t shape you anymore. Not to be presumptuous, but your past doesn’t scream self-realization. What you’ve done since doesn’t scream self-realization, either. And I’ve felt it; the air in your childhood home felt like your parents were lost in their own worlds, trying to get away from the ’til death do we part’ section of their religious vows. Clearly, I don’t know if you have figured out why. I hope you figured out why…

Point is, you went somewhere else, too… like your parents, you grew up wanting to be someone else… anyone else.

Now, as an adult, the you who shows his face to the world cannot legitimately feel normal, and it is because your real feelings are uncontrollable. They have never been controlled, and your only method to control them is to push them as far back into your mind as possible which is not an actual method. But, because feelings remain uncontrollable, you reversely believed me to be too emotional, and too empathetic. I could never be “stable” for you to lean on, I suppose. You even called me manipulative once because I was bringing out emotions in you, and you didn’t understand what to do with them.

Now you’re convinced I’m obsessed, and used you for my own personal gain which is ironic because I ultimately let you use me. I don’t even know if it helped.

So, clearly, as society decrees, I’m just continuing to deny my over-empathetic concern. I should be out for myself, and that’s it. At least you’re an entirely different person now, and fit right into the mold society wanted you to fill… So none of this introspection matters to you… right?

Poem About Love

I have a truth that no one will listen to.
It sounds like any other plea that
I read on the Internet these days.
It sounds like every love song I hear,
like every cry to the universe I can imagine.
The words are so over-said
they are nearly meaningless…
when these things are overspoken,
they seem to matter so much less…
yet I speak them because
I don’t know what else,
besides poetry, to say.
Maybe nothing is best.

Defining a Feeling

I was eighteen at the time, and there was a two-day snowstorm at the beginning of February. I was unable to get home those two days, so I stayed at a friend’s house. During those days, my friend and his sister played Metal Gear Solid, Mario Kart, and Dance Dance Revolution. I loved to watch more than participate.

During the night, I slept downstairs on the recliner with a large blanket and pillow. The house was soundless save for the snowstorm beating against the outside walls. Intermittently, someone let the old dog out. Their directionally-compromised cat sometimes bumped into a wall. I laid there, curled up into a Samus-like ball, still very much awake listening to all this because I never sleep easily, no matter where or how comfortable I am.

Then, nearly-soundless, I hear someone taking the stairs down, two at a time. My friend, for no reason we even really discussed, decided he wanted to cuddle with me in the recliner. Before this, I was impressed to believe I was sleeping alone, and that was it. There was a religious aversion to sleeping in his bed, and I accepted that. I was even inclined to walk home in the snowstorm the next day instead of take advantage of their hospitality. But, instead, he cuddled up with me in that recliner. He never really explained why he wanted to, or if he was uncomfortable doing so… But these questions didn’t seem to matter anymore. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep.

Thing is, his sister and mother let us sleep like that without complaint (even after the recliner broke), and I don’t know where his father was during all of this… or what their family might’ve been going through during those couple days I was there. If anything had been said, or explained about this to me, I might feel differently than I do now about the situation. However, because there was no reprimand from their family (perhaps it was more of the father’s passive aggressive aftershock that broke him), this remains an incredibly innocent moment in my childhood. I have never been so certain of anything in my adult life.

And yet, in saying that, it also defines my most haunting questions as well… What happened after I left that house?

Something happened to him after that recliner broke. It seems like what happened shattered his innocence. Even though this is the only moment I’ve ever felt completely in love with anyone, something broke us, and it wasn’t actually us; it was an outside force. Since then, sex, adulthood, maturity… none of this has re-defined the feeling I felt when I was close to him. The feeling is exactly the same, even when I dream of it. No one has given me this feeling except him. I just can’t capture it.

All I feel now is a shadow of that truth. Everything now is like a compromise of gives and takes while the real feeling lives on in that, now broken, recliner. If I could, I’d repair it. I’d do anything to fix it. I’d like to feel alive again.

I’m trying…

This Poem Ends My Heartbeat

To Villains:
(Because I can’t think of a better word)

I voice my heartache.
It was hard to see you kiss her
Valentine’s Day.
I watched from the other side of that glass
and the art building never felt so cold…

She even met your grandparents
after that choir concert
I dropped out of.
I wasn’t actually jealous,
I just felt depersonified,
like I was never anything
from the very beginning.
Never even a friend…
just a thing with a hole which you penetrated
again, and again
until it bled.

Truth is that I feel lightheaded, and
perhaps these are the last days
I will live, so why not admit these things
to the world, so you can admit your flaws
as I have?
You are allowed to resent me for this because
someone has to tell you that
this is how you treat those who
actually love you,
and wish they didn’t.

Bring Back The Chaos

Many butterflies create a storm.
A hundred million times
I’m torn
between my life
and sense of death.
I wish for it
yet have no reason.

I am, in wandering, a hobo–
lost within my thoughts
gazing through my dreams
seeing the lack of argument
that separated me so well.

Where is the pass…?
What energy can I really give
to make this place any more
unstable? I want to escape,
yet have no reason to go.

I’m stable here, and cannot
see any point of breaking
my promise to let go even though
I’m bound to you with a heart
unable to be remolded.

Beautiful Words Below

Switch box candle. Hearts, and minds. Souls, entwined. Recounting those rows of summer days, where children played. No judgments made. A kitten purrs, and the enlightened murmurs of a woman’s thoughts, while her nose was pressed against your cheek. Little else is relevant in the dance of time, except perhaps your life being lived without regret.

Lest you forget, then all words are lost, and beauty left.