The Flare

Imagine yourself adrift in the open ocean. You're sturdy at the moment, clinging to salvage from the wreck you've endured and surviving. It feels like years you've been alone out there in the darkness. Every now and then things float by to reassure you that you can survive. This may not be the end for you after all.
After a lifetime of isolation, trusting only in yourself to stay alive, you find something with you in the water. It feels like you've been searching your whole life but now in your hands you see a flare. Something to bring attention to you, to you alone, to let everyone know you are alive and you're fighting.
The water is cold though, so very cold. Each move you make feels as if it could be life or death purely by making the choice. You look down in your hand and consider what you are holding. This flare, this LIFE saver clutched in your freezing mitts is your fate. No matter what happens from here on out, it will all stem from this moment forwards. This one ray of hope.
When this ship sank, you knew everyone you loved was onboard. In the lifetimes since that horrible moment when the hull breached and things begain to sink into the bottomless depths never to be found again, you've had to know that it was all you fault. And not only is the blame solely upon yourself, but throughout all this time cinging to dear life upon your door or upon your floating ring, your driftwood you're broken raft, what have you... All this time you've been alone in the cold darkness of nowhere the only thought in your mind has been how you should have stopped it... But you didn't.
Perhaps this was fate, to live long enough to realise the full consequences of what you've done before you disappear forever. To come to an uinderstanding that you're promises and commitments to keeping everyone on board safe and happy have been completely destroyed in their eyes and that no one will ever believe you again.
This must be why the captain goes down with the ship. When his promise is broken, everything that he is, A CAPTAIN, goes down with him. What life pervays for those who abandon their station? What possible future awaits a captain that begs to be rescued from the people whose lives he has ruined? The men and women he was meant to keep safe, but didn't? There will never be faith in such a man again I would assume.
The best life he could hope for after is for everyone he encounters here-to-in forward to have never have heard of 'Captain Such and such, who abandoned his post and lived a long long life after abandoning those in his care into the black depth of the ocean. If no one ever knew of his past, then mayhaps another life will await him. A life wherein nobody ever had reason to look into his past or ask him how he could go on after doing something so heinous to those that trusted him.

Imagine yourself in that captains shoes. Alone, adrift, cold and numb, debating amongst yourself whether to let go and let it end or keep fighting to no damn reason at all. Imagaine hearing, far far away in the distance, the all too familiar voices of your crew. Of your passengers and friends. Your family, as far as you;re concerned. Imagine holding that flare, knowing that this will be the end of this story, one way or another. Imgaine yourself shooting that flare and getting their attention, only for them to come all that way and see how far you've already sunk. They all know you're a lost cause. Hell, half of them even spit at you as a final unforgiving goodbye. Or perhaps it may go a different way. Perhaps they would make room for you upon their lifeboat. They would ensure your survival all the way to shore, and then some. Make sure you're getting the help you need to become firm and fit and healthy. And then one day, far away, you thank them for everything they've done for you in spite of it all. But they don't answer. They don't aknowledge what you say.
Its then that you realise that you've had it wrong this whole time. It wasn't their love for you that let you not die out there, it was the fact that they couldn't allow that on their concience, unlike you who believed that a fulfilling life lay in the wair just beyond the surface. You caused all this pain, all this hurt and chaos and trauma, you would realise as they lefr you to live a long life alone thereafter.

And so you sit out there, dying in the freezing cold darkness, hearing the voices of the people that mean everything to you, with a flare in your hand. To die with an understanding, or live with shame.
Therein is the captains dilemma. Go down with the ship and preserve that image, or live on a ghost, unable to live a good life, and unable to die the good death, The flare is in your hands.

There's one you didn't see

It's strange, what your brain will keep hold of.
My birthday in year 11 was a school day. I had recently branched out to a new freinds group through 2 people that were once my best freinds, and who now hate me. In most high school related media, seniors tended to fall into categories; jocks, nerds, goths, stoners etc. The expectation was that senior year was a war zone, everyone sticking to their own and non-stop drama. But that wasn't the case at our school. By senior year everyone sort of just got along with each other. The 'cool' kids would sit seperate but everyone else just hung out wherever they wanted. No judgements or cliques that had to be upheld. I remember being surprised on that particular birthday by how many different 'groups' were acknowledging me wishing me a happy birthday. It was... nice.

In photography class, everyone went out to take some photos around the school. I stayed back to set up my camera and as I was heading out, one of the girls from class stopped me to say happy birthday. Then she hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. I had never really talked to this girl but I remember being surprised that she did that. I thanked her, and I think she saw that I was a bit confused and told me 'you're a nice guy. I hope you have a good day.'
I cant remember her name. I don't really remember her face. I do remember she was in the 'in-between' status of popular and nerdy, and I remember she was pretty quiet in class. I'd never actually noticed her before then, but that was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me, and it was completely unprovoked.
I don't think I ever spoke to her again in the next two years I spent at that place. I wonder now if that was a mistake.
I've met a lot of people in my life. And I've had a lot of experiences and memories. Sometimes people and situations will just pop into my head and saying it out loud will sound like a bad sitcom. Like that time that a coworker dragged me into the womens restroom and tried to convince me that our manager was part of the illumaniti, or the time I had a 'spiritual cleansing' and went on an amazing journey only later to discover I was drugged with hallucinagens, or the time I tried to console a friend after she and her boyfreind had a fight which led to me almost being arrested on abduction charges because she wouldn't tell the police I wasn't kidnapping her.
I remember all these things from time to time, not to mention the countless shitty and embarrassing things I've done through the years. I do it alot when I won't sleep.
With that memory in particular, when she wished me happy birthday, I remember wondering 'why did she do that?' We didn't really know each other, but she said something really kind and made me feel like I existed. It's too late to read anymore into that, if I ever saw again (if I could even recognize her, oh me of the goldfishes memory) maybe I could maybe ask her why, but I seriously doubt she'd even remember that.
Where I am now, I don't really question why she did that. I just hope that when her birthday came around, that I did the same for her. I hope I let her know that I appreciated her. Because she was a nice girl, and I hope she had a good day. She deserved a good birthday.
But I don't remember what happened. Or if I ever spoke to her again. Or even what she looked like. Not even her name.
It's funny what your brain will let go of.

start again damn it come on

You piece of shit.
You got one out and let it slip. Story of your life, right? I've proven that I can do it, therefore I don't need to do it. Or rather, 'what's the harm in letting it wait?'

I'm a notorious dish horder. Not as in, I go to op-shops and find vintage plates to add to a collection, but as in I will grab mysef something to eat, most often retreat to my room, scoff it down and put the plate somewhere next to me while I watch or listen to something. Then when I'm ready to get back up, I'll put the plate in the pile. I could take it back out and wash it, but I don't. That's too much effort. Or possibly, my subconcious reasoning is along the lines of 'I know it's okay if I leave it there, so why do it now?'

Damn. Now I want a cigarette. Sorry, I got distracted.
Do you smoke? I smoke. I started when I was 18. At first I bought them for my cash-inclined friends, as I was the one who had a job at that point. Vogues, I remember. They offered me one and I snubbed my nose at them. I didn't smoke. I was a very careful drinker. Drugs were my worst nightmare, something out of a horror film. I was against tattoos and piercings too, obviously. Cut to 10 years later, and the only thing I still haven't experienced is piercings. Because my body type does not lend itself to piercings.
After a while of buying cigarettes for people (and slowly stepping down from my high horse), I gave in to the mighty monster of peer pressure and had one.It wasn't bad, all things considered. Nowhere near as bad as I had built it up to be. And THEN I was told I was smoking wrong. I was taught the dragon breath trick to make sure it had reached my lungs. If it could come out of my nostrils, I was doing it right. So I was given another one to practice. It was bad. I got the head spins. Felt real sick afterwards too. Made no sense to me why people did that to themselves. So I abandoned it before I could finish.
A few weeks later I would have an actual cigarette. No offense to Vogue smokers, but it's sort of... how to put this kindly? Weak. Misleading. They're the next step up from those fad sticks that kids used to treat like actual smokes. Don't get me wrong, they were great and classy when actual packaging was a thing and good training wheels for real cigarettes. But they suck. Sorry. Anyway, first real cigarette knocked the wind out of me. Made me mute, sent me to the ground. Stomach weak, Moms spagetti.
And yet here I am ten years later staring at a pack of... fuck what are they called? I know they're reds. They're not Benson and Hedges, why do I keep wanting to say that? Not Dunhill. That was the first pack of smokes I bought though. Had them hidden away for months. Good times.
Oh god, come on man. You're embarrassing yourself. I buy them all the time. Always do a little rehersal before I go up to the counter too. "Hi, could I grab a pack of Bond Street Red 30's?" Oh shit, woah, there we go. Bond Street. That's what it was. It used to be significatly cheaper than Marlboro, and it still is but there was once upon a time where the thought of paying $1 per smoke was insulting. Now it's a bargain.
Wierdly though, in ten years of smoking, I think I must be the only person I know that's never tried quitting. This is where the joke goes that 'quitting isn't in my nature'. And that's partly true. I don't usually give up on things. I just sit with the knowledge that I probably could, so what's the rush? Why do it now when there is always later?
... You piece of shit.

Start

Okay, so here we go. Bloggity Blog Blog is a go go, homeslice.
The purpose here is to try and get better at writing because I saw it as some advice recently, and figured it couldn't hurt. And I'm going to try to make this daily. Because once things in life stop being daily, they often stop being ever.
See that sentace just now? That's why I want to be a better writer. That made no sense, and I knew it. But this is a one and done draft kind of ride we on now baby, so strap yourself in... me... because no one else should ever see this. Mainly because it'll be three blogs at best and then abandoned.
I had a blog before that I abandoned because I didn't like the user name and then nobody cared when I posted early drafts of my book, of which was a directionless mess that had no middle or ending at the time.
It's looking better now though, I swear! Only some of it is directionless and bad.
How long do blogposts go for? Usually they have like a storytime segment or something, right? Actually that's not a bad idea. A daily storytime real quick, yah yah yah. Let's just pick one at random.

Okay, so I recently found my ipod touch from when I was like 17 or something. Some long crazy stretch of time I had that fucker. Senior year, fuck it you get the point. Anyway, so I found it and charged it up and looked through it, cringing at the pictures saved on it (Not of freinds or events, but Death Note and rage face memes. Whooooooo), looking through the podcasts and finding buried gold (classic smodcast with the music still incorporated into the background before copyright became the massive thing it is today [so back in the wild wild west of podcasting days]), going through all my old music to remember what I was into at the time (some good, a lot of bad).
But the thing that surprised me is when I got to the notes I'd saved. There wasn't a lot, certainly less than the 500 or however many on my phone now, and some of them were just random few word sentances. But, lo and behold, some of them were...
Wait for it....
Journal entries! AKA a blogpost! Without the blog part! Woah, universal turnaround for thematic relavance! what what what the fuck am i doing with my life...
ANYWAY back to the notes.
So the earliest one I had was from 2010, when I was 18, so back in highschool. I started reading and remembered the night I wrote it so damn vividly. It was at a party, I was in a tent I'd set up earlier in the evening because that's what most people did when they stayed there (most people had them for privacy so they could fuck, I wanted privacy because of my crippling inability to accept being around people as if I belonged.) In the note I was upset that the girl I liked was hooking up with someone else ( 'The person I loved' was the words I used. Oh dear god.) and very bluntly listing things off that had happened recently. Proper caveman style. WENT FOR DRIVE. HAD BURGER. WHERE IS BLANK? HOPE THEY OK.
Very stunted. Very awkward. Pretty hilarious, swimming in it's own melodrama. The line that really stuck out through it all, however, was this. 'Maybe I don't love her. But if I don't love her, then who do I love?'
Pretty bad right? Well that's not the bad part. The bad part is the next bit.
'There's got to be someone new soon.'
There has got to be someone new soon. Jesus. If there is one thing that sums up everything that was wrong with me, it was this right here. The belief that someone didn't return my feelings, and therefore had to be replaced. Discard the old, and start fresh.
What a terrible way to view people. 'You didn't give me what I wanted, so you can fuck off.' And in THE SAME POST, I complain about people being 'selfish'.
You know what? Thank christ I wrote that down. Thank fuck I never deleted it. And thank Apple for making a product that still worked and allowed me to see it in spite of not having used it in about 10 years.
Because as much as I look around and see people developing great careers and finding love and having kids and other such things that really make me feel that my life has become directionless and devoid of progress; I get to take a look back and see that I am different. I am better smarter. I am better. Even if no one else see's it.
Like no one will see this blog. Hey-O!