Chapter 3c
Can't focus today. Too much booze or weed or combination of the two. No, not those things, too much of me. Too much time spent with myself, I'm starting to rub off on me. With Laura gone I've got a lot more alone time. I feel like I should be sad but I'm not, not really, it's just sort of the nature of the beast. I'm not in a good place to have people around me.
It reminds me of when I was six. The memory is vague but I have a good concept of things. There was a cat, some fat old stray, and it was always hanging around my neighborhood, so we became friends and played and it was all pretty good, even though I got scratched a lot while we were at it. One day I had set down my sandwich or whatever it was I was so excited to eat for lunch that day and the cat snatched it and took off with it. I kicked the shit out of that cat. I'm sure I didn't hurt him too badly but he ran off and didn't come back. I almost felt sad, almost, when I considered my lost friend but the scratches on my hands and arms and the rumbling in my stomach reminded me of how little I cared.
I suspect, being a stray, that the cat had probably been kicked a time or two before I ever got around to it, probably by people considerably larger than I was, but I had done something special. I had betrayed him, those other people, it wasn't even a surprise from them.
My head hurts too bad to work.
I think it's finally taken all it can.
I don't know...I think I need sleep...and maybe brain surgery...
Right now, sleep...I need to sleep...
But the notion passes quickly enough. She's not a stray cat. I'm not a child. There are lots of questions I would like answers to around this time, about how shit fall apart or sticks together and just about life in general, but I have decided not to torment myself over them. I've considered the same questions before, probably, and that never got me anywhere. There's nobody to ask those questions to who can answer them. I have decided to not even ask those questions, not this time through, and just see how living my life goes.
Six was a pretty exciting part of my life at the time, although I hardly give two shits about it now. I still liked school at the time, having started not long before. I always had people who wanted to be around me, and not just the obligatory type that start to hassle you as you get older. I was smart and witty for my age but plenty stupid enough to enjoy all the goodness life had to offer. Maybe I was just smarter then. Either way, things are a lot different twenty-five years later. Obviously, I'm sure things are different for any organism after two and a half decades.
It's not the time that changes us, though, it's just...change. The idea of time is obligatory and pointless. Time, however it's measured, is a unit used to account for change. Think of it. The idea of a second, the smallest normally used unit of time, is still only a measurement of change. It can be the amount of change in the Earth's rotation or it can be when an electron jumps between caesium atoms, doesn't matter. So to say I've changed during any given unit of change? Seems legitimate to me.
Everything seems right, though, as fucked up as it may be. I don't like all of it, I probably don't like most of it, but that's life for you. It still seems right. I love that sensation, the feeling of something terrible feeling right or even the inverse, something incredible and good feeling so wrong, just because it flips the world on its head. I understand
I started into this with intent to whine and plead the case of my poor lost love but, you know what? It does feel right. It feels like I could have had a million different outcomes, and billion things I could be doing with my life, but I'm exactly where I am doing exactly what I'm doing. It seems like that's destiny, maybe, just some force of what should be lining things up for me even when they get in my way.
How do I explain something like that? Answer: I don't. I can't. I do think that everybody must at some point get that sensation in their own lives so eventually I'll make sense, I guess...eventually...maybe... But who cares? I've kicked a cat or so in my day and yeah, sure, I feel bad for it, but I still ended up here. Maybe those fucked up things that tear you apart really do happen for a reason.
I don't believe in fate, I don't think. Then again, free will seems pretty far-fetched, too. You know, I started this to whine and plead the case of my whimpering pride but I think I just lost myself again. I've always been prone to day dreaming a little, it's part of what's expected of me by this point.