No, this is not a rant on my lack of self esteem. I have a great deal of self-worth. At least, now I do.
In high school - by my standards - I was no one special. I was in marching band for four years, and I absolutely hated it. The director always told us the sum was greater than just one of its parts. Math probably wasn't his strong suit - the slope was becoming negative. The band's standard and personality degraded. I hated it, but kept in it despite knowing I absolutely hated playing music, marching, and many of the people in said band. I hoped it would end well. At the final ceremony, the band director did not mention I was a Senior.
I haven't touched any of my music since then.
My senior year I was in the classes of every other Honors Scholar and great friends with the Valevictorian-to-be. By no means was I on their level, but in a manner of two years I had made an effort to accelerate my pace and try to catch up to them. My counselor said it was a great feat. My parents were impressed. A close teacher continuously praised me.
I broke down that year. I held myself to a ludicrous standard and cried when I got rejected from UofM while the chatterboxes and pricks in my classes got in. I felt I have always gotten the shit end of things. In middle school I was placed in the slow track when I was supposed to be advanced. Towards the end of middle school I missed a chance to get into the International Academy - I was 22nd on the list of the 20 people who could possibly get in. Not one person opted out.
A few days later the Valevictorian-to-be complimented me. "Que, I just love you. You are the most relaxed guy I have ever known."
She got a 36 on the ACT, a straight 4.0, and had scholarships to the best schools in the nation. She complimented me, a 29-ACT, 3.79, and scholarshipless scrub. I was no one special, but that was all I needed.
I did not break down then. I did just now.
As much as I wish it was, Que is not my real name.
“Everytime a man things of death, he dies.”
Every night I think of death. What happens when we die? Do we know nothing, as we did before our lives began?
I know not what death entails for the one who dies. For the one who deals with death – it is like cutting off your thumb without feeling pain. It’s a painless, directionless, maddening agony. Since life hates an oxymoron, you want pain, you want direction, you go mad. How do you fight back when your enemy is time? There is no one to harm, no sure-fire preventative measures, nothing. Just time. Committing suicide is surrender to time, there is no way to cheat death.
I love those who lie to make others feel believe. If they believe this lie, they may life it when they die, instead of us non-believers who are stuck in a existential black void for eternity. Though now I have seen the truth – how can I believe the lie?
My grandparents say with time, all wounds heal, even those inflicted by death. These wounds heal, yes, but you are never whole. You can survive cutting a thumb off, but you will always be down a thumb. These are the people who face death and say – “I’ve had a good life, I guess I’m ready to face it anytime. I love you all.”
Surrender, I’ve always hated that term. Compromise is only a little better, but surrender is an atrocity. My grandparents are willing to surrender. All their lives they have fought a fighting retreat. They were valiant, but now they are worn and tired. They will surrender someday.
Damn it, I hate death.
I wish I were like them – but I am too terrified of death. I tell myself “Don’t avoid risks in life to make it safely to death” as I close my blinds and lock myself indoors. I am terrified of life and death.
I love the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It's advice "Don't Panic" has helped me move on from thinking of death every night. The final message in So Long, Thanks for All the Fish helps even more:
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” - God
Sorry to post such a depressing first post to my blog. Wrote all this last night when I could not fall asleep. Have to have an outlet somewhere, you know?
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