Chapter 7b

Monday, March 4, 2013

I can't see how much is left of the wick but the flame is faltering. Either the wick has burned too low or is being overtaken by the wax that holds it. Either way, the outcome is the same. I will soon be extinguished. Before I go, I want to compile something, some kind of declaration of the knowledge I've gained by living a hundred different lives.

It hasn't been a hundred, not yet, but I'm sure we're headed in that direction. In my dreams I die. People say that when you die in a dream your body dies with you. I believe this to be true. So what's going on? Maybe I'm just not dying in those dreams. It's possible, I guess, maybe I'm resuscitated shortly after waking. Maybe I'm just wrong about that killing you. I can't offer any real logic as to why I know I'm not wrong but I'm not wrong.

My final conclusion is that, for some reason, I'm living too many lives. It all adds up. The Me I'm being watched by. The creepy shadow in the background of my mind. The dreams. Even my own journal entries don't add up. Have I already killed myself? Have I forgotten that? No and yes. Somewhere, I'm already dead. Here, though, I just watch myself die and push on through the muck.

I know that I'm crazy. Even I can see the signs swelling up around me. I'm crazy, sure, but I'm not wrong. Those dreams where I die are starting to catch up to me.

Every time I fall asleep I do so knowing I will not wake up. I live every day like my last because it is.

I've considered suicide but I've seen the outcome and it always land me back here.

I am trapped in this reality. No matter how many bullets I am killed by, no matter how many ropes or fumes or pills, I always wake up to the same nightmare. I am trapped but there has to be some escape. The way I am going now will loop into old age and then? What next? Will I finally die when my heart runs out of beats?

I woke up this morning with my own hands tight around my neck. I don't remember the dream but I remember the great sense of accomplishment I felt as I struggled for air. I caught the mother fucker, I though, I finally caught the mother fucker. I passed out, maybe for a few minutes or maybe for a few days, and when I woke I could barely breathe. Now I'm wondering if maybe that wasn't the dream but I know better.

There are too many of me for there to be room for this me, I can see that. They drop like flies (I drop like flies) but no matter how many go there's never any more room. I will try to die and I will succeed. In the morning I will drink a gallon of bleach. The next day I will plunge a chainsaw into my chest (if I can maneuver that). After that I'll cut my wrists and maybe my throat for good measure. Maybe I'll eat rat poison until I pass out next. Or cover myself in gas and smoke a cigarette. Maybe I'll just smoke ten packs a day for the rest of my life and see what happens.

The fucked up part of that? I know what will happen. I'll get fucked up. I'll get maimed, probably suffer some serious brain damage and lose the ability to speak or walk or both. I'll probably live on a respirator and won't be able to eat anything but tasteless mush which will be pumped down my esophagus for me. I'll get third degree burns all over my body and draw attention away from them by getting lung cancer. But I won't die. I'll wake up in the morning and I'll think about those moments I spent dying during every moment I spend tethered to a hospital bed.

One day these different universes and possibilities and realities will crash together and burn. One will be left over, there always has to be one left over to tie up the ends, but will it be me? I pray every night before I die that the truth is gentler and the remainder after the crash will be one of the dead ones but I can't know until I'm gone. That's why, for now, I'm looking forward to my slumbers.

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