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For my closest friend

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  #1  
Old 08-07-2016, 03:55 PM
sofia.benbahmed (Offline)
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Default For my closest friend


I have belonged to myself since I took my first breath. Arguably, since before then. And somehow I was never good enough for myself, or to myself.
I have corresponded with death, offered myself to her, and she in turn has starved. Inexplicably. I do not know why she spares me when I so willingly throw up my hands and seek her out.
My vocabulary is lacking – I am unable to adequately express myself or my anguish. I have led a difficult life – by no means more difficult than many others have suffered, but painful all the same, and I feel weak, and I feel ready for the universe to take me back. If I could return myself I would.

Hope is sometimes absurd, and I have never naturally gravitated towards her. I have at times felt the miracle of her filling my lungs and coursing through my veins. I have felt her cradle me. I have flown like the swallows above the glass ocean as it shatters and waxes and wanes. I have felt like a miracle myself, I have seen my survival as a testament to my strength.
At the moment, though, it feels like an unfortunate coincidence.

Even in my silence, when I was still young, I spoke too loudly. My Mother told me I was “hateful”, a “spoiled brat”. In the cold bathroom mirror I examined her handprints on my face, red and raised like braille. My Father was my life. He adored me, and as an adult I question what it is in him that made him incapable of protecting me. And for that matter, what force could be so strong as to cause my mother to hurt me so, when she loved me, as she frequently told me, beyond the stars and the sun.
And then there was Him. He came nearly every night, he defiled me. He sucked something out of me, when I was too young to know that I even had it. What “it” was – what has lacked since those nights – I still can’t identify. Innocence, one could say, but that’s a little bit cliché, isn’t it?

Write, expell the poison. This is my attempt to purge myself of what is killing me, to exorcise the demon of hopelessness that seems all consuming and unforgiving. This is my attempt to find something somewhere inside of myself that can help me to keep going.

Help. One word. I need help. Many would argue that I have had plenty of “help”, and I have had many trained experts find themselves unable to solve the riddle, the puzzle that I am, the questions that my case offers that I am uanware of but know exist.

I would like to liken myself to a spool of thread, and I would invite the earth to unravel me, one thin line at a time, until I cease to be. Until my spot in the world opens up to be filled by someone entirely different. Replace me, please.

And I would beg the earth to be simply what it presents itself to be – that there be no afterlife, no more. That when my body goes limp and decays and melts into the mud, that I disappear completely, that I eventually evaporate, and I would beg the god I don’t believe in to erase the love that others have had for me, to pull their memories of me from their minds like ghosts and offer them up to the wind, so that it is as though I may never have been here at all.

Hope, life, death. Laughter. Laughter may seem a random pick, to explore at this point, but to me it makes perfect sense. Laughter and humor have been one of my greatest life’s delights. By my circumstances I was molded and developed quite a harsh sense of humor, and it’s one that many people cannot understand. I am labeled inappropriate.

I would like to offer now to those who have said this that I agree. I do not fit here. I am not meant to be. I was a universal accident, and I plea with whatever might be out there to undo me, to press DELETE, and to allow the rest of the world to go on and forget this mistake of a human being.

As I write this I keep breathing, every breath like a dagger, an insult to what’s left of a damaged soul. I have so rabidly pursued death that it is astonishing that I sit here, alone, still breathing, both resentful and grateful, extremely confused.

What I once so prided myself on – my relationship to words – I see now as entirely useless. I was never a brilliant scribe to begin with, and I was too lazy – or screwed up – to truly pursue this lost ambition. In the recent weeks I have attempted to revive it, to collect words and place them one after the other in a way that feels right, that feels as though I am exploring the deepest parts of me, the dark that is so dark I cannot see, the things I understand and don’t understand. I feel I am failing.

And somehow I am writing this. I am sitting here, chain smoking (a cute little habit I inhereted from Mother Dearest), breathing, typing. I am weaving words together for better or for worse. I am hoping – despite my perception that I am void of hope – to continue to be a wordsmith, to offer myself to blank page, to make some small mark in this world – despite that desire to have all traces of myself removed from it.

Life is complicated, that I believe, and it is also simple, which only makes it more complicated. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. You will never understand anything, nor will I. All is subjective. Life is a mirage even in all of its physicality.

Love is the only solution, and I am afraid that our world murders her repeatedly. The people that make up our world are often indifferent to Love, they slight her, they rape her as he once raped me. I am aware that Love exists, and that there are people in the world so beautiful I, as the aspiring writer, will not even attempt to describe. Fuck that, let me try – their souls shimmer like the surface of the sea, they burst like the rays of the sun, they scuttle like the creatures underground, they recycle themselves and they will never, like a candle, burn out. Love is infinite. Love is the only solution.

And I wrote this for you. I began writing it for myself, and only in this moment did I realize I was writing to you all along, the closest friend I have ever had, the one I love so dearly it overwhelms me. I love you, and I thank you for your time, I thank you reading this, I thank you for continuing to exist when life has thrown shit at you time and again, when you have been forced to try to kill yourself over and over again, when your mind nearly murdered you and is still attempting to do so. I thank you for existing, because I know you do it for love, and for laughter, and for words, and for what is dearest to you, which of course varies from what is dearest to any other being on this planet.
I adore you. I miss you. I hope to hold you again, but if I do not, know only this: I have loved you more deeply than I believed even love could go.

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  #2  
Old 08-08-2016, 12:15 AM
DATo (Offline)
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No one who writes as exquisitely as you do can be a mistake. The proper word, perhaps, is survivor. The pain you have experienced has been experienced by many over the aeons of human existence and those who have survived it have seen beyond the veil and have acquired wisdom denied to many. Dostoyevsky felt that the four years he spent in a Siberian prison enduring the harshest physical and psychological trials imaginable is what perfected him as a writer. I believe that sometimes our most difficult trials are actually gifts - opportunities in fact - which, if we can find the strength to prove our worthiness are actually bequests of Providence. I share your lack of belief but I have always felt that the idea of a god is an important place holder, like a decimal point in mathematics, in the mind of man, a fulcrum representing hope perhaps, or in its varying respects for each of us in its own way the distant goal of salvation if rendered only in the aspect of peace of mind.

Below is an excerpt from Jerome K. Jerome's book Three Men In A Boat which, though it is meant to be comedic, at times achieves a level of profound philosophical brilliance and ethereal beauty. This excerpt may apply directly to your experience as it has to many of my own.

And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the night. In its
great presence, our small sorrows creep away, ashamed. The day has been
so full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and of
bitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then
Night, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon our
fevered head, and turns our little tear-stained faces up to hers, and
smiles; and, though she does not speak, we know what she would say, and
lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone.

Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her very
silent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night's
heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our
hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away
beneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a
mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great
Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that
Pain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.

Only those who have worn the crown of suffering can look upon that
wondrous light; and they, when they return, may not speak of it, or tell
the mystery they know.


/
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Last edited by DATo; 08-08-2016 at 12:40 AM.. Reason: spelling error
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Old 08-08-2016, 04:52 AM
sofia.benbahmed (Offline)
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Originally Posted by DATo View Post
No one who writes as exquisitely as you do can be a mistake. The proper word, perhaps, is survivor. The pain you have experienced has been experienced by many over the aeons of human existence and those who have survived it have seen beyond the veil and have acquired wisdom denied to many. Dostoyevsky felt that the four years he spent in a Siberian prison enduring the harshest physical and psychological trials imaginable is what perfected him as a writer. I believe that sometimes our most difficult trials are actually gifts - opportunities in fact - which, if we can find the strength to prove our worthiness are actually bequests of Providence. I share your lack of belief but I have always felt that the idea of a god is an important place holder, like a decimal point in mathematics, in the mind of man, a fulcrum representing hope perhaps, or in its varying respects for each of us in its own way the distant goal of salvation if rendered only in the aspect of peace of mind.

Below is an excerpt from Jerome K. Jerome's book Three Men In A Boat which, though it is meant to be comedic, at times achieves a level of profound philosophical brilliance and ethereal beauty. This excerpt may apply directly to your experience as it has to many of my own.

And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the night. In its
great presence, our small sorrows creep away, ashamed. The day has been
so full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and of
bitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then
Night, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon our
fevered head, and turns our little tear-stained faces up to hers, and
smiles; and, though she does not speak, we know what she would say, and
lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone.

Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her very
silent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night's
heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our
hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away
beneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a
mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great
Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that
Pain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.

Only those who have worn the crown of suffering can look upon that
wondrous light; and they, when they return, may not speak of it, or tell
the mystery they know.


/
Thank you. So much. "No one who writes as exquisitely as you can be a mistake" may be the best compliment I've received in quite some time. I thank you for encouraging me, and your resonance with my experience. Sometimes I worry that I'm not a great writer, and nothing - nothing - is as fulfilling as another human being believing in my abilities to put words together in a way that can express things that matter.

Thank you for sharing that excerpt with me, and for your sympathy and kindness. I am so grateful that you shared your thoughts and responded to this - last night was a rough night, when I wrote that - and I have posted a few things on this forum and not received responses, which only makes me feel like I must be a pretty crappy writer. So thank you for both your compliment and your human goodness, your reaching out to me so sincerely and kindly.
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  #4  
Old 10-23-2016, 08:39 AM
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nice
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Old 10-25-2016, 09:19 AM
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Keep writing, keep going. You'll find what you're looking for.
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Old 10-31-2016, 12:42 PM
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Old 11-23-2016, 06:51 PM
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interesting thoughts
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