The odd thing here is that I know I fucked up, and that I’m scared shitless about what happens next.
The odder thing is that my fuck-ups have gradually begun fixing up even without any sort of intervention on my part, and that while I’m scared shitless about what happens next, I’m actually happier than I’ve ever been.
The oddest thing is that my brain is emptier than it has ever been and wringing words out my head makes me just want to cry, and I’m scared shitless about what happens next, but I’m excited about hurting my head and breaking my long writing hiatus apart by telling myself everything that happened like I wasn’t there and like I didn’t feel a thing about it when it happened.
When I swore to stay away from ALA, I meant it. That place has a life of its own, and it thrives on its members. [
that word, right there, is a parasite to my brain; how long has it been since I had a non-perverted thought in my mind when someone says “member”? I cannot recall.] I was there when it was only beginning to flourish, and a mixture of self-loathing, commitment issues, and running away from the shit I’ve caused led to what was at once that best and worst decision I’ve ever made in my entire life. (Excluding that one time, with the cow joke and the corned beef.)
I still haven’t apologised to the people I should have apologised to. I’m not really quite sure how or when I should.
I wrote a letter once, to our then-moderator. I never gave it to him.
It’s a very strange thing to watch people around you moving fast.
People say life isn’t like a movie, that no matter how close movies get to reality it will never truly bleed into what happens around you that are outside the realms of such illusory things. There is, however, that one line that reminds me how awfully false these thoughts could be: stranger than fiction. Reality is stranger. Fiction allows me to time my friends’ maturities, keep them as children that have no responsibilities further than those a school organisation requires. Fiction would let me let us stay the same. I wouldn’t have to watch them drift away because of work or other things, and I wouldn’t have to feel left out again because ‘oh look they’re doing things with their life and I’m here drinking coffee and wondering what happens next and oh look they’ve graduate with honors they like what they’re doing they’re happy where they are oooh food’. Fiction would let me stop these people from moving fast.
Or slow them down, at the very least.
The odd thing is, I’m not quite sure what happens next, and yet I’m happier than I ever was knowing where I went.