Work Text:
You know, I have issues understanding the flow of time. It’s weird, I’ve always had issues when trying to express how I feel, and somehow doing it in a different language than my own makes it seem easier, or at least less than the ramblings of a weird teenager planning to die on his graduation day.
So that makes me seven years overdue, and yeah let’s see how far it goes, be it courage or cowardice I don’t think about that too often anymore. Thing is, sometimes I realize that somehow I’m still here.
I made sense of things, thought I had a clear path, a pandemic happened and made me lose all track of what I was doing, who I was supposed to be and who the old me used to be.
I wrote Saturno, and now I look back at it and can only see a pile of trash that wants to say something but fails miserably.
I started Afloat, and it was a mess but it was my mess. Then I got sick, thought the pain would never stop and lost weight.
Then they promised that my dreams would come true, and took it away six months later.
I think I found a way out and I’m still unsure about all of it, but it’s better than nothing. Could be much worse, and even though I see ways in which it could be better I was not dealt those cards.
So I see all my friends moving on, conquering stuff, graduating. I hear their voices screaming about how I need to jump into that pool but all I want to ask is “What the hell is water?”.
And no one answers me. Not because they don’t want to, they do, but water is natural to them.
And I want to be listened to. I want to have answers. I don’t want to shout to the void, because it won’t shout back at me.
And time doesn’t stop, I grow old, people I love get closer to death, deadlines deadlines, everyday I seem more late and a burden out of place. Doesn’t matter that somehow my head is still stuck in better moments, or worse moments that this fucking monster that is nostalgia makes seem good.
When I was 11 I woke up and realized I was in fact alive, and I wanted to change that in any way that I could, and nothing ever worked.
I used to pretend my old school was haunted and that I was the only one able to decipher the mystery going on there, because I wanted to feel special and believe that there was more than what my eyes could see.
Then, as pathetic as this sounds, I saw a tv show about a mad man with a box who ended up saying “in 900 years of time and space i've never met anyone who wasn't important” and that was a rope to which my mind couldn’t let go even when I wanted the most to rip it.
When I was 13 I never thought I would reach 14, when I was 15 I never thought I would reach 16, and that’s how it goes.
And through all this I met people. Be it through my hometown streets or online. I formed bonds, on my best attempts to create that feeling of found family I used to crave so much, because it’s hard to hang on to your real family when simple stuff can be the end.
I’m pretty sure that the moment I gave up was when they grabbed my phone as punishment for I don’t even remember what and read all my talks out loud. All my thoughts, all my worries, all the times I even vented about them, just discussed with coffee, threats, an endless fear of what they would do to me that still makes me shiver and their voices asking themselves “where did we go wrong?” while I was holding back screams, crying until all my body hurt, and tried to explain stuff that now I see was never meant to be brought up. It was mine, not theirs.
But fuck that. Fuck them. (I say pretending to not care while knowing that I still care and probably always will). I don’t think about them.
And requoting someone much smarter and a much better writer than I’ll ever be (which the only thing we maaybe could have in common someday is our end): Everything I ever let go of has claw marks in it.
I still think about the first boy I called friend.
I still think about all the people I moved on from because it was the right thing to do.
I still think about people that I don’t even want around me anymore.
I still think about all his tantrums.
I still think about sleepless nights we spent talking.
I still think about how I used girls, girls, boys to tell you stuff about me.
I still think about how you said we were ohana.
I still think about you trying to make sense in a world that is unfair to you.
I still think about you when I see fanart from characters that you love.
I still think about how green should be the most powerful color.
I still think about vampires, and night creatures.
I still think about how I said I saw myself in you, and that made me sad.
I still think about how I made you weep when I said I couldn’t do it anymore.
I still think about how I hugged you and said you were strong after your father’s funeral, only to break you down months after that.
I still think about how I sobbed when you used an excuse to end stuff.
I still think about how time is a mere concept we invented but we are still slaves to it.
I still think about the worlds we shared.
I still think about the fucking black dog.
I still think about all the art that they created.
I still think about all the good that is meaningless seeing the bad you did.
I still think about all the stuff that only had meaning for me.
I still think about how you unironically liked that post saying “There are people that help you become the person that you end up being, and you can be grateful for them, even if they were never meant to be in your life forever.”
I’ll still think about anyone for much more time than they will about me, and that’s fine. I’ve come to realize that claw marks will always be there, be it because I didn’t want to let go or because I forced them to be gone.
Sometimes I still think about Thiago and Trevor, as if they were real breathing dudes getting into places where they shouldn’t be, exploring the place in which I grew up in a way that I was never able to and just, being there for each other in the end.
I think about so many names that mean nothing to anyone else but me, and at this point half of me wants for them to matter, and the other is just too tired to care.
Tired of what? Why do I feel so fucking tired all the time, even in days that I shouldn’t be? Who fucking knows.
Funny how I remember writing an email to the future me when I was 13, and a section had a bunch of initials saying “if you are ever alone you can trust them”
I’m pretty sure that three of them hate me. (And I don’t blame them.)
One either is dead or completely disappeared from the internet.
Two are only echoes of who we used to be.
One turned into someone I despise and wish I had never met.
So many others I will only remember when I finally see that email.
And then there are the ones who remained and some days I fear that it might be the last, which I feel is betraying their trust. But this text is about sad shit, not about them. They deserve something better and if I ever actually publish something I’ll dedicate it to them. Honestly, they deserve better than to even read this.
It’s insane how people who I’m sure don’t even remember me are still in my thoughts to this day, and I hope that I’m also like this to someone, but in a good way.
And this text doesn’t have a natural progression, doesn’t have editing, doesn’t have anything. I don’t know why I’m writing this. Why I suddenly felt this urge to pretend my words mean something and that they are worth reading.
So this is not for you.
This is not for me.
All that I do is pretend to see a claw growing out of the void to shake my hand and say “Hello.”
Happy new year, void.