13-August-2014
What do you do when your own mind begins to turn on you slowly? When you can find no more answers to the questions you thought were already accounted for? Not to mentions the new ones that came since then. But more important… what do you do when you can no longer find answer to the question that keeps you alive… what do you do when you don't know what your porpose in this world is anymore?
Some would turn to putting a gun in their mouth in order to end it all, but why would I do such a thing? First of all, if I were to do such a thing, it would mean that all that I fought for so far, all I accomplished, all I suffered was in vain. As I said before, some of us have been through too much to think like that anymore. You don't just give up after life's throwed so much at you, maybe simply because you feel special. Life doesn't give its best shoot to everyone, now does it?
With suicide not on the option list, what is there left? Some would look to find something that could give their lives a meaning. A dream, a mission… something for which to wake up in the morning, something that keeps you going. But over the years I had enough dreams, and I could make almost none of them come true, nor are they still worth fighting for. Not for me.
Am I supposed to wait for something to come up along the rest of my journey? Well this doesn't even seem like a journey, it just feels like a train that's standing in the station for months now. Where am I supposed to go? What is there left to come that hasn't came and gone already? It feels like there is no track left up ahead, like I speeded my way through the railway so fast that I reached the end of it before the train was due to go out of service…
Yet I keep waking up every morning. For what, that I know not. Dark have my dreams been of late, yet it affects me in almost no way. Dreams of a past I cannot run from, turned to a future that will never come to pass. Yet I embrace it, as I have no will left to reject it. I started writing letters, as I feel as if I have nothing to lose if I do so. However my letters are not sent via any kind of mail service… the only way I could send them is by burning them every night as soon as they are finished. One copy of each letter I will leave here for myself and the original will always be burned.
A letter follows after this page of the journal.
Dear Madeline…
I see no sense in keeping track of how old you would have been at any given time in my life, as either way it is an age you will never reach, except in my mind. And as I look at you trough it every night, you look more and more beautiful, yet I know time has nothing to do with this. You never speak though, but the way I imagine your voice, it is as crystalline as the sound of a perfect little bird.
I wonder why you never speak in my mind… maybe it is because I know not what you would say, what your judgment would be like, what your resolve to problems be...
And I think that is because none of us could know, as you are unlike all of us. You were sent to change us all… to save us. To bring order to this chaos. To make sense out of all, to give us hope. To give us something worth fighting for. Yet that day never came, nor will it have another chance.
That day should have been the end of my world; the beginning of yours. Yet your world will never come, and we will remain stuck in that of me and the ones alike me until the end.