Hey, you. My dear log. Have I ever mentioned that you, at bottom, are a true blessing for me? You've been with me all the way since I have been hanging around in Liberty, you've always been at my side, even though you are just a bloody damn log. We've been through good times, through less good times and through the fuc.king worst of them all. I hope I didn't pester you with my mood swings too much back then, though, it was never intentional, please believe me. It's also not as if I had always kept you up-to-date or anything, but let's see it from another perspective: No matter what, sooner or later I've come back to you, to write stuff into you, to talk to you, to get rid of the emotional baggages in my mind. So to say, you might know me better than anybody else. My closest friends know my fassade, and have one or another insight, but they definitely don't know me completely. You on the other hand do, because here, when I talk to you, I don't need to keep secrets. That's all I wanted to say about it. Thanks for that, it really helps.
Before you start wondering though why you don't see my ugly face, let's clear that out quickly. I've decided to go back to a text-bases format, yes. I'm not sure for how long I will keep it, but there are reasons for it. You wouldn't want to see me right now anyways, I'm looking like a picture of misery to describe it nicely. Luckily there are no mirrors in this room I'm currently lying in, I wouldn't want to see me right now anyways. I just couldn't stand it. The problem isn't a "Oh my God, I don't wear make-up today"-related problem. Simply put, I'd have to vomit. Additionally, while I do like talking to you, I want to put content in here. Which is easier by writing at this moment than by talking, considering I would probably burst into a flood of tears the second I start talking about what I want to tell you. Yes, it's that bad. No, I am neither kidding nor exaggerating.
Just consider this a forewarning of what is to follow.
And by now have I already spent one to two hours, just to write this short piece of text. Interrupted by phases of procrastinating "staring-out-of-the-window", crying attacks and what-not. Whatever I am going to tell you now, please understand that it's so unbelievably hard to imagine my situation, and it's even harder to describe my situation without constant fall-backs of lamenting, over and over again. I know exactly how I feel, but putting that into words - it hurts deep down. Which makes me wonder why the fu.ck I have actually decided to write this. Then again, even though I don't want to concede it, I know why I try to write it down in an understandable manner, even though I feel like a masochist in doing so. Somebody I need to tell this, at best somebody who isn't even able to react, because I swear, the least thing I currently need from people is a reaction, whatever it might be. Support, blame, I don't care, I don't want it. The first is an absolutely obsolete piece of blah blah that no bastard needs, the latter I have in stock in masses already, thanks anyways.
It's as if you are falling into a deep, black hole, you know that you are falling, but you got no hint of idea when you are about to hit the ground, or if there actually is any ground at all. For now, it's an endless fall, I don't know where the ground it is, but for God's sake I hope I will hit it soon. I can't stand falling anymore, it's only you and the void beside you, you're on your own, and you got nothing left to comfort yourself. You will inevitably hit the ground, you can do nothing about it, and it's such a hard thing to actually accept this. I believe I haven't, yet. A couple of days aren't enough for that, probably, I fear.
To express it a little clearer, possibly, can you imagine how it feels when this one thing that made your life worth living is gone? The thing that has motivated you the most, made you stand through the ups and downs of life, no matter what happens, just because you know what you're working towards, what you're trying to achieve? This one dream, this one goal. When it is gone, when you slowly, but surely begin realizing you cannot achieve anymore, no matter the circumstances, a world begins to crumble, your world begins to crumble. When you look forward, you see void. And when you look back, seeing what you have tried to achieve your goal, your dream, you only see void as well, remembering that anything you did was in total vain in the end. Remembering how optimistic you once were about your dream, how you were so naively sure you would reach it.
It's not naive to risk things, it's naive to think whatever plans you have for your life will actually work out. I have learnt this lesson of life so many times before during the span of my life, and every single time it proved to be right when something happened that I hadn't seen coming, destroying everything. No matter if it was my dream to become a Militär officer - denied. Or my dream to trek through Sirius with the so called "love of my life" - denied. Or to become a mother together with the man I love - DENIED.
It's dead. I hate putting it in those blunt words, but really there are no other words than those two, no way to say it differently, no way around the hard truth. It's gone. I could already scream my mind to the heavens, shouting at God why he did this, why he has taken it from me, confronting him and asking him the question of theodicy, the question of why? But at the end of the day, I know who is to blame, I don't want to confess it, it hurts, but I know exactly who did this to my child. It was his own mother. And this is what makes the fall feel endless to me. If it had been God to blame, at one point could I have forgiven him and just went on. But I'm just not sure if I can ever forgive this faux-pas to myself. I have my blood on my hands, more so, I got my offspring's blood on my hands! Tell me, how many parents have actually killed their own children? Not many, I guess, but one can be added to the list now. It's an unbelievable feeling, an unbelievably sh.itty one. Literally, I've spent the last few days in my bed, idling, staring out of the window, looking at the meal right next to me, then staring out of the window again, repeat that a few more times and you got my average day currently. I'm chained to this bed, chained to so much time I got for myself. I could need work right now, something to distract me, because my thoughts have tortured for the whole week so far. The chances of me going insane aren't too low, I guess.
I know I'm not the only one thinking that way, that I am to blame. John thinks the same way. He didn't say it, but from his reaction it became more or less obvious. In the end, he left me alone, probably heading to binge-drink in the next bar he could find. I've never seen him that angry, honestly. Angry at me. But I can't blame him.
If anything, I need to get out of here, this place is torture. If they won't let me go in the next two days, I'll make a getaway on my own. I can't endure this anymore. I just hope it will get better once I'm out of here.