In Memory of Me
Even
at night I still dreamt of him. There
he was, watching over me. There he was,
reaching into me, and touching the inner depths of my heart—we had a word for
it. Or, rather, we had a ****** for
it. It wasn't something you could say
or even explain. The best way to say
it…no express it…was just ******. Do
you know what I mean? Anyway, he would
reach into my heart, and we would touch.
For that moment, I would feel something. It was like a reaction, a fusion, of spirits. It's hard to even talk about it—so many
emotions and feelings—you really had to experience it.
But
he was still there in my dreams, in my visions, in my idle thoughts. No, he was in all of my thoughts. And how to remove him from my memory? No, impossible—he was infused in me. Whether insight or insanity I know not, but
I still feel him, a shadow of nothingness, a lingering will o' the wisp that
becomes harder to find the closer you look.
Deep within my essence, and deep within my being, and just in me, I guess, I still feel him. But he was always there.
Blackwargreymon.
I
suppose that one could say that I have a partiality to him. I mean, he is in my very being. But…but just…I don't know. (thinking for a bit) But just seeing, and feeling him…it's…it's like
a connection of sorts to the digital world.
I write this, shall we say, posthumously? No…not quite. But
certainly ex post facto of His
death. He was alive to me until I saw
his noble sacrifice, indeed.
*SIGH* It left me in some shock,
I must say, but what am I to do, to say what goes on in that world?
I
felt him. I know its real. It's a feeling, and I have learned to trust
my feelings, or rather, to feel trust.
I can see him without him being there.
Just now, lying pensive on my bed over his death, he whispered to
me. "Albert," he said, in a distant
whisper. "You believed in me." I'm still not quite sure what that means,
but I get a good vibe from it. Well,
having just seen the close of season two—which I taped a while back—inspired my
insanity—I attempted to transport myself to the digital world.
Here
on I do not lie (not to imply that I have been lying, for I haven't). I could feel something, the feeling of
physical presence. The twitch of a
finger—my finger—on the other side of the barrier between the worlds. I could see their shadows around me—Exveemon
to one side, and I think it was Aquilamon on another; there were others, but I
can't recall them all. They were flying
with me in the darkness. We just flew
and flew with speed and grace. I think
there might have been a light, but I still could see nothing but shadows. Flashes of dreams pieced together—dreams of
the past. I guess I've always
fantasized that I've lived in some dream world not quite like the Matrix, from
which I would someday awaken. I still
wait.
But
him, his presence, his everpresence.
It's still there. I feel him
forever. Ever since I first spotted him
I knew it was him that was for me, or me for him. It doesn't matter—it's the same thing. But ever since I first spotted him on the episode after his creation (I missed the episode
of his creation), I knew he was mine.
My digimon. He was looking for
me. And I was looking for him. As he destroyed in both worlds on that T.V.
screen I wanted to get up and shout, "I'm here! Here!
Blackwargreymon! I'm here!"
I
know that if I did, he might turn for an instant, and look off into the
distance, like some strange voice was calling him, but then shake his head and
move on. I know him. He knows me. Even now, I still imagine him—can feel him—like he's behind
me. Ever time I turn, though, he is
still behind me. I content myself with
talking to him in our special language—a mix of English and emotion—in my head,
as I do my work, or drive, or sleep at night.
I know he's there.
But I
guess he isn't quite miffed at the presence of Flamedramon or Silverbolt. They were there first. Silverbolt was first, and his Maximal
buddies have had occasional cameos, but it was mostly just Silverbolt. Somehow, though, Flamedramon got into the
scene. He was inside and out me, like
Silverbolt. Both of them, in fact, have
been in and out of me. I was them at
times, but not quite in the same way with Blackwargreymon. He was different. He was really me.
He was there in those dark times,
but I never talked to him then. In
those times of my emotional grief, Silverbolt would put a hand on my shoulder,
and I could feel the cold warmth of Cybertronian alloy, its weight and presence
somewhat soft and fuzzy on my skin and clothes. Flamedramon would stand a few meters away, looking down and off
to the side, but somehow at me, and through me. But I never even noticed Him then, Blackwargreymon. And when I did, it would just pass over like
that.
But
he was always there. Always in me and
about me and around me. It seems that I
would always approach him before he would approach me or do anything. I can't remember any case where he really
approached me. Wargreymon did that
once, I think, but I'm not sure I remember rightly. Blackwargreymon was different.
I was him. He was me.
But…I…I
guess there's a little more. I don't
know. I really don't. This stuff is kinda hazy. I think there's a little something more with
him. Or rather, with me. We are the same right? Heh.
Okay. Breathe. (I shake my head vigorously) Okay, okay.
Enough. Back to it. Focus.
But I
think there's a little more. No, no, I
can't be so insecure. Not like the
illusions of Malomyotismon. I have to
be sure of myself. I know there's
something more. He is me. He really is. Or I'm him. I've never
tried it, but I think that if I looked into the mirror, there would be another
reflection besides my own. In another
time, I would've said that he was behind me in that reflection, but now, I can
see that he is me. His image is the
only reflection in the mirror. His
blackness—sometimes confused for Wargreymon's orangeness—is what I see. I am him.
I
never really died. I suppose it's kind
of foolish to think so. It's just so
hard to get used to this form—so many feelings and so many strange
sensations. The one thing I'll never
get over is the physical weakness, but I suppose I will get used to it
eventually. But things are great. I've had some dreams, or notions, or notions
of dreams, of a voice—the silent kind that doesn't quite speak, yet says stuff
nonetheless—that tells me that I have earned it. That's all. That I've
earned it and deserve it. Even now at
night I dream of the old times—the warrior times—the regimental and strict
soldier ways, the precise drilling, the camaraderie of battle, all the glory
and honor stuff. I've even tried hard
to return to that world, but now (and I mean now, this instant, as I write) I
realize that I live in this great world now, this human world full of dreams
and possibilities. I can be
anything. I am anything. I am my dreams.
