On Life and Infinity and all in between

Because school counsellors don't know how to deal with me and, what the fuck, maybe I can swing this thing as extra credit

Because my mind actually goes philosophical at midnight when I can't sleep because SEBASTIAN SNORES SO BLOODY LOUDLY

CAN YOU HEAR ME SEB? I AM YELLING AT YOU

Fuck it. Back to philosophy I go

They say when dying, you go through five stages, each very different, each so stereotypical. You progress through the stages in a very linear fashion – linear in the sense that they are a line. You don't have to go through them one after the other – you can skip them, you can go backwards. But, somewhere between the realisation that you're dying and the actual leaving-this-world-and-moving-on-and-decomposing bit, you go through every single one of them.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. And, most depressingly – acceptance. (Yes, I realise the irony in that statement.)

Well, that's all well and good. It's extensive, and it's become stereotypical because of that element of truth it holds for us all. I mean, what sort of psych student or pop culture nut couldn't recite these in his or her sleep?

But what they don't tell you, is the different types of dying people.

First up, there's the little kiddies. The soldiers. The ones with cancer or blood disorders or two heads. They're everywhere. Every time you walk into a hospital, you're confronted with their poor, innocent faces, so obviously condemned by fate, so set in the belief that the only thing that will save them is a large wad of cash to the hospital. They're brave, don't get me wrong. I hold these kids in the highest respect (just not how corporations abuse their image for profit). So completely naïve of their fate. Or, even worse, the ones that know… I suppose I'm a little like them. We don't fear death. There's no point fearing it. But, the things that we'll miss out on – getting married, having ten kids, getting fired and fearing the bank repossessing our home… Pleasant or not, it's an experience that, well, we won't get. And that just plain sucks.

I digress. I meant to speak of the "positive" ones. Which these kids sort of are… I guess they're a sub-type. They know there isn't long til they simply won't be – present tense – any more. So, each day counts. Each day is something to be celebrated. Somehow, in these tiny brains of theirs, they learn how to push all that shit away and just smile… purely because they are still here.

I'm jealous of them sometimes. I really am.

On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, are the "hopeless". They won't always have been glass-half-empty people, but Dying just has this way of gripping your brain, dicing it, and putting it back together like a straight-edged jigsaw puzzle… it's not right, but you've got fuck-all at making it a brain again. These are the fighters… in a twisted sense. The ones that refuse to give in to the disease, whatever the hell it is… And they do. Mostly, they just beat the disease at its game.

Smack bang in the middle of these guys, are… I guess I should call them non-typers, even though their name is so ironic because by being a non-typer they are, in essence, a type but IS THIS EVEN MAKING SENSE ANYMORE WHAT IS SYNTAX yes. These guys basically look at whatever it is they have and go, 'Fuck it. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. Sure, life sucks a little right now, but someday it'll be over. Normality is a good thing. I'm going to cling to this completely intangible and in all likelihood impossible notion and be just fine-and-dandy until one day I don't wake up and don't have to bother with facades any longer.'

What the fuck even is normality, is what I'd like to know.

Next we have the what I like to, and probably shouldn't, call, the Dead Poets Society. These are the people who try so goddamn hard to live by carpe diem. They donate all their money to charity, they go bungee-jumping in New Zealand, they eat snail and lobster and peanut butter and banana sandwiches… just because. Although, when I think about it, these guys are almost the most depressing of all. They've accepted their fate. They aren't happy… so they try to sneak it in other ways. If that actually achieves something, I'll… I'll… I'll eat a burger. Rare meat, white bread, onions, the whole lot. And then I'll burn the flag.

Then there's the more selfless… and ultimately selfish. The ones who don't want to cause people more pain – so remove themselves from society. They refuse to be seen. Because somewhere in their minds (remember what I said about Dying?) they forget that, well, nobody's gonna be around forever. They think that letting their friends see them in their sickened state will somehow hurt less than letting them see them just one last time.

Clare was a bit like that.

The guys here keep asking about her.

I don't know what to tell them. I mean… how do you tell someone, that the only person you could love, just… was. Past tense.

I digress again. I suppose I'll eventually write her story down. Someone has to. And, I don't know. The guys here, just… they respect privacy, but… they just. I don't even know. There's some weird connection between them all. I can feel it pulling me too, much as I try to ignore it. They want me in their… I don't know if it's a wolf-pack and they can all speak telepathically (blame her for the Twilight reference) or what the hell it is.

Shit.

I keep digressing.

I don't even know why they wanted me to write about death. I suppose the counsellor here just… doesn't really know what to do with me. I mean, it's old news for me. But not for them. And, fuck it. Just once in my life I want something to work out. So, I'll try. Mr Harris, if you're reading this… apologies for the language. My training makes me bite my tongue when speaking, but there's just so much honesty that the pen holds, right? Some strange power… like they can only speak the truth. And I mean… they're just words.

These are all words. Such meaningless little things. One letter after another that our brain forms into some connection and then we communicate. But that's all they are. One letter after another.

Maybe it's the simplicity that lends to their immortality.

Fuck, I'm getting philosophical.

I guess I should go back to typing people.

But why? What do I hope to achieve? What the hell did my brain want to get out, to flow down in blood through my fingers and into the pen and soak itself into the page?

Goddamn Lit. I'm speaking in fucking imagery now.

Who gives a shit anyway. We all have our place in the world.

So, Mr Harris. I guess you're wondering… which type am I?

I don't know.

I don't even know what day it is anymore.


Hey guys!

So... not entirely sure where this came from. Possibly Mars. Possibly me finally sitting down and reading a few chapters of The Fault in Our Stars. Possibly in the package delivered with my new shiny blazer... but somewhere. But, I was at work and I was, like Hunter, feeling rather philosophical, and I sat down to write and this happened. So you get this, and (assuming my Muse behaves itself) next update should be his first day.

I know there are questions. And I will get to them. And, because I have a feeling this chapter might prompt some - the chances of me actually killing Hunter are seriously slim. And I'm not using killing in the John Green understanding. I promise.

So like always I'm super-busy with work. I had to do a 14 hour shift the other day - not kidding - and a sleepover last night. And a client had her 70th birthday last week, so she had a party today, so of course I stuck around work to help with that... which was pretty cool.

I do, however, need to make dinner - it's 1900 hours now and I'm ever-so-slightly hungry, so, I'll just post this and go running :p

Thank you to everyone that's read this, reviewed, favourited, followed, all that jazz. It really means the world to me to wake up and find your messages! Shout outs to Different Child, Carbon65, my guest :-) , Pen Magic, Eraman and HPandWforever!

Also, because I somehow managed to forget last time - you have to thank (well, I have to thank) Different Child and Carbon65 for helping spark my muse - and Different Child suggested If I Die Young, which Trent sang and dear God I think it's in the top 5 songs that Dominic Barnes NEEDS TO SING!

Okay. Good. I'm done for now.

Like it? Hate it? Want one of my clients to hit me with their chairs? Please let me know!

Keep smiling! :D