Diary entry, April 16, 2014

There is a girl who almost remembers things.  She remembers things the way someone who is about to remember a name suddenly forgets it again.  Like sea waves in early spring that almost roll onto your toes but stop just a few inches shy and then return to the sea, as you both long for the feel of the water covering your skin and yet exhale relief because the water is so very cold.

She waits for dreams but they are so often the same.  She waits for someone to tell her something.  She is so used to accepting.  Accepting and accepting and accepting.  Some say this is a virtue, but acceptance can be the first stage of surrender.  She no longer fights, because she accepts.  She gives up.

There are many ways to die.  She died believing she had survived.  But all that survived were her involuntary functions, like breathing, and hoping.  Everything that moved under direction was murdered.  There can be no free will.  There can be nothing left that opens all of the doors in the hallway.  There can be no way through the red straw network.  There can only be walking.  Walking and walking and walking.  And there must be acceptance.  Her life was forfeit.  It was never meant to be practiced.  It was meant to be sacrificed to the greater cause.  If only the buffoon hadn’t been such a buffoon.  The great buffoon who accidentally saved them all by being so very useless and weird.  It does not matter who you are or where you came from if you are weird, and, therefore, unpredictable.  Close counts in more than just horseshoes and hand grenades.

He was a fool.  Even with fools he could not fit in.  He was a fool who fools despised, because he did not know he was weird.  His genius brain betrayed him.  Everything and everyone betrayed him.  It was a family full of nuclear silences.  The bomb has yet to go off.  Instead the leaking radiation is killing us all.