False Dreams, False Memories

Though it wasn’t a major component of my dream last night, I knew as I slept that my ex-girlfriend had committed suicide some time in the past. The knowledge wasn’t a shock, gut-wrenching and eliciting tears, but rather the feeling was one of an old sadness. I thought of her and was sad that she had died, and by her own hand.

When I awoke, this knowledge lingered and I continued in my sadness. As sleep fell away, however, I began to examine the memory, confused by my reactions and thoughts. If she had died, why hadn’t I called her husband to offer my condolences and assistance? Why didn’t I remember writing about it, and why hadn’t I attended the funeral?

The first place I turned for answers was Facebook. Surely if she had really committed suicide there would be a long list of posts from people on her wall wishing her peace and offering prayers for her family. Of course, what I found was nothing of the sort. She had taken some sort of quiz recently, and posted some new photos.

There are dreams that strike us, that shake us with a fear and horror that refuses to dissipate upon waking. Instead, I am left with this quiet sadness, all the more poignant for all the true memories of death and suicide that likewise refuse to leave.

I don’t begrudge that sadness–I think it is an important part of being human and capable of love. I do wish it could be restrained however, and kept from spilling over where it is not needed.

In A Slump

I was doing pretty well at writing before my accident. Writing most every day, meeting goals, making progress, blogging and creating… but then I got hurt and couldn’t write hardly at all. I’ve healed pretty quickly and I can type almost comfortably again, but I find myself completely unmotivated.

Yesterday I watched anime almost all day, and last night and this morning I tried to generate some new ideas for writing. I don’t need new ideas, because I have a ton of old ideas. I’m over 40 notes in Evernote in just a week, most of which are separate ideas for things to write. But I’ve got nothing I particularly want to write right now. Either it bores me, or I don’t want to do it.

I hate that most of my ideas for stories are dark, morbid, and somewhat horrific. An old acquaintance of mine committed suicide last week, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Obviously, I’m upset, and sad in a general sort of way, because I came so close to that path myself and now view suicide as a wasteful action… but he and I weren’t close, not even enough to call him a friend. Acquaintance is the best I can do if I’m honest.

I remember him smiling, talking with him downtown or at debate tournaments, and how nice he was to me. He was smart, and we got along well. I wish I had known him better.

Last night I began writing a story about a robot whose scientist-creator uploaded a new memory into her every day. Each day was another horrible recollection, memories forced onto her of war, cruelty, rape, murder… until she wanted to commit suicide. For a human, we can usually balance the horror against the good experiences we have had, and our mental gymanstics allow us to believe that things are mostly OK in the end. We can deal with it. When that equation goes the other way, we cannot.

The last time I had a really good time writing was at Kaldi’s on Battlefield, a relatively new coffee shop to Springfield, so I think I might go back there. Like Abraham returning to his altar between Bethel and Ai, maybe I can find my direction again from that place. Maybe a new path will its present itself, or at the least maybe I can start walking again. My bone is healing on the outside, but something on the inside isn’t quite right. I may not be wearing a sling, but I’m still broken.