When I Die

Growing Up

I played my guitar. I could play. My fingers moved, strings vibrated..

I went to a friend's house. Helped him patch up his new Th-Pro. Mike says it should be all set by Sunday, and that he should get all his presets transferred by then as well.

What this translates to is we'll record a song soon.

What this translates to is a strange tranquility. I'm looking forward to that recording session. I'm looking forward to something.

What this translates to is coming back to life.

I watched a cartoon. I haven't seen one since that internet movie, Danse Simplique. I laughed. Without guilt.

I went to college yesterday; told the professors I wasn't well and that's why I couldn't come to college.

I stayed in the campus after lectures. Tried to talk a bit with the usual gang of idiots. Felt my heartbeat in my ears. Felt my toes twitching. Felt my calves complaining when I stood straight a long time. Felt like I was an organism again.

I'm going out with Ash and Rishi today evening. I don't know where, but I am.

Amy's journal is now buried behind the scrapbook I've had since I was a toddler and which I stopped adding to since I was thirteen. The scrapbook is buried behind a stack of old books that will never be removed (and read) and never be thrown away.

I read it all the way through. All I can say is that I shouldn't have.

Things aren't any different, really.

I think of her everyday; I used to think of her everyday back when I didn't know the truth.

W.com, and all you people, I owe you a huge thanks.

I wrote a story. That's somehow important. For three days, I was able to escape into a bleak futuristic world at least for a few minutes. That story ends in death. That story's as insane as I felt during the past month. I think all my frustration comes out in that story. I wiped away all of humanity off the face of the earth and let an AI talk about it.

I think what happened is all my anger came out in that story. And though the story most definitely sucks, I think it's one of the most important ones I've written. It helped me forget; even if it was only for half an hour. It made me forget that I was sitting here on the computer and that shit had happened (and will continue to happen) in my life and that Amy was dead and that it didn't matter to anyone, least of all, to God.

I wrote another story this week which talks about God. It's vulgar, very accusative, and controversial as hell. I'll post it when I think I've got the balls to take on the hate mail from the religious. I don't think it says anything wrong. It only states, in a gory, dark, profane, ugly way, what I believe God is, if he exists: unforgiving, tricky, cruel.

The thing is that I think I'm gonna be all right. The thing is that I don't find myself whining and complaining about how Fate had a good one on me as often as I used to. The thing is that there is sorrow, but I don't feel the need to express it.

The thing is that maybe I'm getting wiser about how things really are. Maybe I'm letting go of all my fairy tale endings and morals.

The thing is that maybe I'm doing something I should've done a long time ago. For the first time in my life, maybe I'm growing up.