A Certain Type of Decisive

United States

Just your unfriendly neighborhood disaster, bringing you bi-weekly updates from the bottom of my own shoe!

Message to Readers

Just because you can't percieve something, that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. You are not the benchmark for reality. You're just an Easter bunny costume, left out on the stairs, as a disgruntled teen searches through the storroom attic for a spare flashlight.

Ouija Board

July 20, 2020

To the Ghost That Lives in My House:

   On a normal occasion, I might greet you, the two of us have spent enough time together that I doubt I could say anything that might make our correspondence less awkward. You've also probably figured that there's not much I can say to anyone to make situations less awkward- I think it's my signature move. I'm sure you're aware of the situations at hand- I don't know death, but I won't assume it's unfeeling and unknowing for two reasons: firstly, if there's nothing but an endless, uncaring dark that follows death, you won't be reading this letter. And secondly, it makes a boring story-- and you know that's all I've ever cared about.

    We've been spending more time together-- I didn't realize at first, but I've shown you a side of me that no one else has seen. No one-- not my best friend, my siblings, my parents-- has seen me guzzle Cheez-Its and do fake Tik-Tok dances from across my house. No one but you. I know the way the curtains move; you were there when I was crying over an instructional dance video series. I heard whispers and creaking floorboards-- shadows out of the corner of my eye as I sent email, after email, after email (she'll respond eventually, I'm certain). I've read enough private writing out loud, when I thought I was home alone, for you to know uncomfortably personal things-- my days of bad hygiene, of numbness, of late nights, of weirdness, workouts, zoom calls, tears-- you know far more than I am comfortable publishing as a piece. I hope you don't mind the openness, by the way. I'm submitting a copy online-- you know the writing community I'm a part of? It's a wonder that they were having a contest about this very thing. 

    I might've never written this letter-- I could talk to you as usual, but I've been away over the holiday. You've no doubt seen my grandfather babying the dog, seen the dust settle, and heard the silence. Getting away was incredible-- but something surprised me out there. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose-- I never thought I was going to miss you. I get surprised by emotion sometimes. It's like an open-air butterfly garden in a distant town, you never know what kind you will see, where they are, or even if you'll see them at all. But when you do, you are always amazed at how complex it is. Also, I'm scared of butterflies. But that's beside the point-- the point is that I'm lonely.

    I'm lucky-- thousands of universes at my fingertips and a big family-- I'm not lonely in the way so many people are, isolated and touch-starved. I can only imagine this is what it feels like to be dead-- to be surrounded by so many familiar things, yet alone. I'm lucky, but I'm lonely. I've already told you that I prefer talking to people about mundane things. I can only tell my parents that I'm learning about video games, about fantasy writing, about things I learn from info-graphics on the web, so many times. I love the people I have and the life I have, but that doesn't mean I'm not wishing for something new. 

  I used to think that friendship required a certain number of hours to be legitimate. To be more than acquaintances, you need to know a specific number of facts about a person. It's a Pokemon you could level up to evolve from friend to best friend to soulmate, a Tamagotchi to take care of. You have to have lied awake a night, thinking about them, go through some kind of trouble together, accidentally say "I love you" when you end a call with them. There was a threshold you could cross, just by reaching a number. 

   I've changed my mind.
    I've decided friendship is just a choice, nothing else. If two people choose to be friends, nothing can stop them. There are no qualifiers, milestones, prerequisites. They just exist. Labels are man-made and therefore, you can decide how, when, or why you apply them. There's not much you can control in this universe-- but you'd probably know that better than anyone. People always say ghosts are just the wind and some part of my brain takes that literally. Are you moved from place to place by the whims of mother nature? Are ghosts so light that they cannot choose where they go? In a more metaphorical sense, I can't choose where I go, either. I am still young-- we'll make an odd pair, don't you think? 

  I'd like to choose you as a friend. I haven't been scared of ghosts since I was pretty young- I was too busy being scared of the Vashta Nerada to give it much thought. Now I'm scared of long hallways and the music from Unsolved Mysteries (also the Vasta Nerada because it's still scary as hell), but ghosts? Maybe this is insulting-- I don't want to be rude, I just have to clarify: I'm not befriending you in hope of becoming less scared of you. Though, maybe that is a more noble reason than loneliness. People always love each other for selfish reasons, right? I just want something new. I want to decide that today is different from yesterday. I want to be better.
  And I want to be friends with you.

  I finished this letter over the holiday and publish it when I'm home. You'll be the first to see it in its entirety. I've left this copy on my desk in hopes that you'll read it, but if you don't, that's alright. Perhaps death is busier than I anticipated, maybe its less lonely than I am. But if you find the time, or something you want to label, I'll look around for messages written in dust and whispers through the air conditioner. I can't wait to be home again.

See you soon,

The instructional dance video series was called "Dances Moving" and it broke my heart. If anyone wants to know what I consider true art, you can take a look, there's only seven episodes or something, they're only about two minutes each. There's a crazy underlying metaphor in the music writing, alongside the more obvious metaphors-- hmu if you watch it, I'll tell you all about it.
Also, Gecko is a name I use on a certain, unnamed writing website with a shorter username space. 

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