- Posts: 264
- Joined: Tue Dec 23, 2014 1:29 am
- Are you human?: Not likely
- Location: Majesta
I wish it was possible to pour raw emotions onto a page, to make the reader feel the exact same gripping feelings that a language can provide but at the exact magnified vortex that the original author intended.
I had an uncle Steve. I had two, but I’m focusing on the one from my mom’s side of the family. He was always sick in some way. While most of us were given bodies that worked well enough for us to express ourselves, he was given a vessel that was corrupted. He could not survive on his own simply because he was too sick.
I . . . I can’t describe this well enough. There’s no way for me to truly express the rawness I’m feeling right now. I can’t get it onto the page and I feel so much worse for it. If only there was the perfect combination of letters and spaces, commas, periods, and semicolons, that could encompass the flowery and symbolic nature of a good writer and the emotional intensity that I simply can’t express . . .
Why, why, why am I like this? I’m listening to sad music and I have an inability to grieve properly, and I’m still here wondering why writing is so hard.
I want to write, but I can’t, because all these images are flickering through my head like comets in a meteor shower, except they’re not fading out. It’s an endless circle and it’s like I’m in seventh grade all over again, suspended in a thin layer of disbelief that’s ready to be snatched away by the darkest corners of my mind and thrown into the deepest void you could ever have possibly imagined.
I’m in shock all over again. Tears are threatening to spill over, betraying every last ounce of composure I thought I had.
The three year anniversary of his death is ten days away.
March 22, 2018. That’s the day he died, and it’s possibly the worst day of my life.
I’m trying to write, but it’s hard to see the screen because I’m living out the moment of his death over and over again in my head, and those emotions that I tried so hard to abolish are climbing back to the surface and knocking politely on my door.
And that makes it even worse, because I’m not used to my mind being kind to me.
So I have to let them in, and it releases a flood of death and destruction into me that I simply can’t fight. I don’t want to remember because it hurts. It hurts so, so much.
And now the back of my throat hurts like the dickens because I’m trying to hold in my sobs, and it’s not working very well. And I’m scrambling to connect words into phrases because I just want you to understand.
I know they say misery loves company, but I can’t do this alone. I just want to give people the empathy in order to understand what it feels like, to pinpoint the date of the worst time of your life and to know it can never be replaced.
I was born in 2004. I’m a part of Gen Z. As a result, Minecraft was a huge and critical part of my childhood, and my escape for many years.
My uncle, my mom’s brother, used to stay at my family’s house, and he would try to help to the best of his ability because he didn’t want to be seen as a burden. I can promise you that he was a much better person than I have ever been, or probably ever will be. I can sit here crying to the tune of a slowed Alpha for hours, days, months, years – but it won’t bring him back.
Perhaps that’s the worst part. He will never come back, and I have nobody once again.
It would be selfish to ask for him back, anyways. He was always in so much pain, and now he’s at peace, sitting in an urn somewhere next to a stuffed penguin in the middle of a nowhere that’s about an hour’s drive from my home. He will never see the light again, and neither will that penguin.
He loved penguins. They were his favorite animal. I don’t think I ever learned why, but I like to think it has something to do with the fact that it’s the only bird that can’t fly. It has to adapt in unprecedented ways to the area around it, but it can’t fly like everyone else.
But it can swim, and it can swim better than probably any other bird around.
His health problems began at the age of sixteen for him. Considering I am currently sixteen as I write this, it hits me in a whole new way. He never developed the wings to fly, so he had to learn how to swim.
Some days, I would try to join him in the water, and I would talk with him for hours about things, and it brought me so much joy knowing that I could talk to him whenever I needed. He was always there throughout my childhood, and I remember when I was about five years old, and I toured him through my Minecraft house. Man, I miss those days.
I just want to go back and rewind the year 2015 over and over again: before my depression, before my family’s dying spree, before COVID, before everything began going wrong.
I just want to live in a world where I can be happy, and free, and a child again, over and over and over. But it’s impossible because the forces and entropy that bring the universe into being are always at work, and they care not for the thoughts of humanity.
I guess it is true, after all, that humans always want what they can’t have.
I remember the few times that we had the opportunity to talk about B.E.A.R. Corporation, which I wish I could make real, but I simply don’t have the willpower to do so.
I have so much potential, so much supposed talent, and it lives inside of me, but it falters at my fingertips, evaporating into thin air before my mind can see where it went. Perhaps God stole my will away to give me a character flaw.
It’s like I’m paralyzed, laying on the ground, and there’s nobody around for miles. I’m stuck, slowly losing my ability and will to live, as my body rots away and my soul watches from a distance.
I cling onto nostalgia like a child, my mind yearning for the days of fifth grade, when I was still innocent enough to understand the concept of humility. Why am I insecure? Why am I like this? Why can’t I ever do anything that will make people remember that I once existed on this planet?
Will anyone remember him?
Will anyone remember the kid they used to spend their afternoons with, playing around and maybe buying twenty five cent lemonade being sold by the girl next door?
Will anyone remember the kid they used to fool around with in high school, playing video games while keeping quiet so as not to bother his older sister, my mom?
Or is it just I, a kid with somewhat strange circumstances, that can remember him?
One day, I still have to die too, and though I may be the last out of those that knew him, I still want to keep him alive in the hearts of society.
But I fear that I may not be strong enough to bring him to life again, and even though I have so much desire to just blast pure power from my hands and resurrect his character, the best I can do is to gather the pixie dust that’s accumulated on the floor and scramble together this shoddy excuse of a story, or whatever the heck it is, and create an idea of what my life used to be.
And I had to use a slowed down Minecraft song on repeat to help me.
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