The events that have occurred in the past week have lifted me from my own feet. Two of the very most important lives I have ever had the honour of coming across left me last Monday. And I really didn't know how to react. So I coped the only way I knew how; I went on a drinking binge, inhaled a massive amount of drugs, and slept with a lot of women.
Well, that's not really true. I locked myself in the study for a week, worked non-stop, and drank two entire boxes of Ceylon tea. I couldn't remember how much I ripped me apart inside if I concentrated on something else. I couldn't remember Nics' fucking sarcasm, or how that fucking cat would claw my leg to shit when he wanted attention. Nothing but shading methods, arc angles, the width of an inking well. I couldn't think of how much it hurt.
For all of my anger and pain, it still has happened. For the pain it's caused me, I do love this stupid existence. It falls and crumbles, and we'd all be better off dead. But there in lies the problem. I truly do at long last (and have for the past while) accepted and cherished my own life. I don't want to die, even though I understand it'd be better for me.
All I wish to do at the moment is indulge in this pathetic existence. I know I'm dying, as we all are in our own way, and I'm fine with that. But while there is still breath in my body, I will live as full as I know how.
For all my hatred, for all my pain. I have spent years cursing humanity, and to an extent, I still do. But I have become accustomed to it all, grown fond of all the experiences. Despite all the flaws, it all made me smile.
My own peace comes with the perspective I've had on this world. It's different than eye-level. I, in no way, think myself privileged, but the secrets that I carry bare this. It's so easy to indulge in the pain of it all, to be cynical about it all. But all I really want (despite my own self-righteous bullshit) is to sink down to a point where I feel like a flesh and blood human, not some ghost on the wall.
I have experienced many things in my life, both painful and sad. But none of them were tragedies. I still believe in that, with all of my heart.
My entire body is covered with scars, understandably. Despite the pain, despite the bitterness some of them bring, I don't mind them. Scars serve to prove that my past is a reality and not just a dream. The good and the bad, they all served a purpose. I understand my burdens, and I understand that I'm going to carry that weight 'till my dying day. I understand that they needed to leave, as I will some day. The pain, the tears, the scars, the nightmares, the guilt...they'll all go away in the end, and I'll be able to find my own peace, just as he needed. We all lose our charms in the end. But until then, I'll carry this weight, wear my scars, and bare my crosses; and despite/in part because of them, I?ll live as far as it can push me.