Last night I died.

I think about narratives a lot.

I think about the flow of stories, and how the rhythm of the words and pictures can make you feel. Something in my head is always trying to put all these puzzle pieces together — and without even meaning to, I’ll start taking apart the movies and books I read; or I’ll try to smush together the ones I create into some kind of coherent shape.

And sometimes I wish being alive was more like a story. Immortal and forever; a place where change can persevere. 

Last night I died.

I wanted to, once upon a time, display a kind of strength I don’t think I have anymore. 

Last night I died.

I’ve started ignoring my problems, yet they haven’t really gone away. I guess they bother me less, because I’m ignoring them, but every so often — out of the corner of my eye — I notice what I’ve been avoiding. The world still doesn’t look right, and I feel like something inside me is missing; sometimes at least. 

I have the sense that I’m getting worse, actually. Like me, specifically. I feel like the things that made me worthwhile keep slipping away from me. 

But I also feel like I understand more — though I’m not really sure the trade was worth it. But I understand myself better than I used to. And I understand what I care about better too. It’s interesting, to change nothing, and yet still find yourself twisting into something new as the months pass. I feel more assured in myself — what that self is — even if it isn’t always good — and what I want in life, what I think about it, than I did a year or four ago. Isn’t that strange?

Last night I died.

There’s an irony here that isn’t lost on me.

Every new year I find myself in the same place — worrying about my death. Well here we are again, fourth year running; remixing old essays and themes that I wrote better the first time — I’ve lost whatever I once had.

Last night I died.

I think I deeply hate myself — it might be the only thing I’m truly capable of hating.

I just… I just think I should be better, somehow. Like the bad things in my life only ever happen because I let them. That when I’m sad, or feeling alone, it’s my fault for not being able to stop it.

And it’s not rational, or rationalized, at the very least. I just feel that deep anger and a sometimes mix of shame; and it’s not because I did anything. It’s just because I am.

Existing is something that’s important to me. I want to keep doing it — so sometimes I have trouble letting go. I’m not sure how to exist without these feelings of guilt — blame for all the ways I’m not strong enough — I don’t know how to exist without this disdain for myself. 

The recognition of value is important to me. So if I wasn’t here to feel these things, I think no one would. And I feel angry at that idea too — that the world could somehow bury these obvious truths. That I could somehow get away with allowing all my failures to exist. 

And I know it’s my responsibility that I’m not right. I know it’s my fault — all of it. That I can’t keep myself strong enough to hold a boundary. That I can’t stick up for myself when it matters most. That I can’t help the people I love. That I’m not happy. And I’m angry at myself, for all of it, because I don’t know how I could fault anything else.Â

Last night I died.

I think I’m empty inside.

Maybe the real way to say this is that I don’t have a soul. The fact that people are capable of love and connection, or deserving of happiness, is an artifact of them being real. But I’m just cardboard, and if you looked at me from a slightly different angle you’d see there’s nothing to me at all. If you peered deep into me, tore away at the paper facade, there wouldn’t be anything underneath. Just absence. 

I’m lacking, in so many ways — but most relevantly here — lacking the ability to be loved. Connection is a bridge between two people; or maybe, in the deepest sense, it’s between two souls — but there’s nothing deep about me, that’s the problem. It’s all one dimensional. If only everyone else could take the time to see this for themselves, we could all stop pretending otherwise.

So it’s not just that I feel alone sometimes — it’s that I’m fundamentally unable notto be. That to connect with someone else requires something I’ll never have. 

And despite it all, that still makes me sad.

Last night I died.

Ironically people do compliment me, from time to time. Because they can’t be bothered to get close enough to see what I’m actually made of — but still, they do say nice things, from time to time. That I’m kind or caring, funny and quick witted, considerate and insightful.

And I can’t believe it. For all the obvious reasons, of course. But beyond this, that even if I tell a good joke or make a thoughtful gesture, it isn’t enough to make me those things.  Like the words don’t apply if I’m not perfect. How can I be kind if I’m not perfectly kind? 

And I think we all know I’m far from that.

Last night I died.

I think it’s okay to be cruel to myself. 

I mean you could do it too, even though I know you won’t. So I’ll have to put in the work for all of us instead.

Last night I died.

I overthink things a lot, I think. 

I feel like that has connotations, and I’m not sure I mean them all. It’s not that I categorically come to the wrong conclusions because I ‘overthink’. Often, maybe the majority of the time, I am in fact right about whatever I’m thinking — which is usually regarding some inane philosophy problem. I just can’t stop myself from scrutinizing and engaging with anything and everything I find before me; well past the point of usefulness. Not every text needs a paragraph response, it’s okay to say ‘yeah, alright’ sometimes. 

Well I think about things a lot — and sometimes those things are me. And sometimes I get through a problem like this; I think it to death. This is probably what ends all my personal relationships too, but that’s a separate topic.

The thing is, no matter how triumphantly you resolve something, life isn’t a story. Not in the relevant ways. It doesn’t matter if I think so hard I stop fretting about my insecurities. You can just wake up the next day and some neuron is just a little out of place, or you have a cold, and suddenly you’re inexplicably sad again.

There’s no ‘the end’ — there’s merely a tomorrow, and when it comes it brings changes; not always the kind you want. Real change takes consistent work; and it won’t stick every day. It’s not a straight line. It isn’t a fairytale. And that’s okay; normal and human — so I want to believe, at least.

But I’ve been ignoring my problems, for the hope that a better narrative will stick. And I keep waking up disappointed that I’m not actually a work of fiction.

Last night I died.

Do you think… that if I’m cruel enough to myself it would somehow absolve me of everything?

No, obviously. No one could really believe that — at least no one I know. What matters is the tangible, the actual actions and outcomes. And no matter how much guilt I feel it won’t change what actually exists; or my lack thereof.

And I think I deserve these feelings. Obviously. It’s important to look at the world and see it for all that it is, as I’ve already said. And if you looked at me you’d see the truth. Necessarily from what I am it follows — so I should feel this way, not as penance but as an act of honesty.

But is it bad that I still want those things — the ones I know I’m incapable of. Is it wrong that I wish I could be funny or kind, even if it means I’d have to do it perfectly? That I wish I could be loved.

And that I wish that somehow, if I just hurt myself enough, it will make the hope real.

Last night I died.

I’m a prolific writer — sometimes — but a pretty shitty publicist. For all the writing I get up to, so little of it is ever finished. But there’s something I keep trying to communicate, yet I still haven’t figured out how. I still haven’t found the right words. I want to call it the absurd — but I can’t seem to find the voice to talk about it at all, so I don’t really call it anything. 

There’s this sense of insignificance — of being small, and temporary — that staring at the stars or the clouds can fill you with. The impertinence of life. That beneath it all, everything that is merely does so because of forces and laws we can never truly touch — and somehow all of that comes together to make the air lilac, and the leaves shine gold, right before fading to black. And that somehow, when we stand together — beneath the endless irrelevancy brought on by the endless sky — we feel nothing of the sort. 

Everything that we know is held in place by the clashing of energies we cannot naturally perceive. The gravity of the sun and the moon keep our oceans moving and our mountains fixed. I look at the world and I see this everywhere. A half and half between opposites, that by every right shouldn’t be able to exist together — oil and water pushing against each other, back and forth. But the system is stable; and it persists in spite of and solely because of the endless clash. 

And the force from all of that makes me feel fuzzy inside, and I want to smile.

There’s a kind of power in believing two opposing things at the same time. That there’s no meaning to life, and that your loved ones are significant anyways. There’s a kind of beauty in it; when both things are true, despite conflicting. There’s a kind of joy; to never giving in — a joy to the other truth, that always existed alongside the first. And the only response is to laugh, despite it all.

Last night I died.

I was reflecting recently, as I am so often prone to do. This ever uncontrollable urge to take apart and understand everything around me — even myself. I’m always trying to grasp what’s happening, and sometimes that means grasping at what’s happening within me

Well I looked inside, the other day, and I think I confused myself — because I saw something valuable in there again. 

Last night I died.

And then the next day I found the spark was back, after months of silent darkness. 

I don’t mean it as some metaphor for my happiness. I got happier and still the spark wasn’t there — no matter how happy I got, actually.

And in the past I’ve been unhappy, and still I had it. Whatever it actually is.

But I can see the ways words flow into themselves again. When I type, the sentences float out in the aether, and when I write one down I know exactly where to pull the next from. I don’t know how to explain why it was gone, I just know that it’s returned. Maybe, regardless, this essay isn’t very good — but then again maybe none of my writing ever was. 

Still I feel that the sparks have come back, somewhere deep in my core. There is a noise to the way my mind connects ideas once more — the crackle of these flickers, igniting deep within me and beneath the surface of my vision. 

I can see the world again, in the chaotic way I used to.

Last night I died.

Yet I kept trying to hold onto myself — but I never could. I guess maybe I can accept that, again. Again, and again, and again. Still, I don’t want to let go of all that is important to me.

Last night I died.

But today I woke up and found the things I care about still exist. I can’t seem to fix what’s wrong with me, but I don’t seem to be breaking what’s valuable either.

There’s a lie we tell ourselves, if only for the hope it might actually be true. That if we change nothing, somehow everything wrong will simply go right — if only we ignore the problems hard enough. Well I’ve changed nothing, and my problems persist. 

But so do I.

Last night I died.

And today I think… I think I’m happy. 

I don’t know, I woke up yesterday, and now sometimes I catch my reflection and I don’t always hate what I see.

I think, also, that I’ve been getting teary more often too — I’m not really sure what’s going on with that one though.

But I think I’m happy. And sometimes I think about things and I just feel a little sad too, and the feelings flow into each other — and it’s not always bad. It just feels like living. And that makes me want to laugh.

Last night I died.

And today I’m increasingly worried that I’m going to die alone — originally because we all feel insecure sometimes, and I can’t stop myself from being that way either. But increasingly I’m worried it’s not even a lackluster personality or poor muscle definition that will make this come true — but rather that we’re all heading to the same fate.

But I think I’m happy, despite the worry. Despite the fact when I see the snow fall it makes me want to cry a little. 

I think there is some sweetness within my soul, some kindness — there are some things there, things at all. 

Perhaps I merely yearn again, as great writers do — for life and love — though, unfortunately, I think the mediocre ones do that too. But no matter which I am, I still want to look at the stars and I want to hold someone’s hand. And maybe I can accept that I do deserve that. That it’s not wrong for me to exist.

Last night I died.

And today I think I’m happy. 

It’s silly, I know, that someone who overthinks so much so often misses the obvious. But I amfunny and quick witted. There’s a way I see the world, sometimes, that other people don’t. And I see a lot of beauty — and I have a way of sharing that with other people; communicating what I see; and there’s something lovely in that.

Something lovely in me — simply because I am. There’s a combination of traits that have all somehow mixed — and that combination is me, and that combination is valuable — not simply because they are good things, like affection or earnestness, but because merely to live is to be so. To be lovely.

There’s this thing I keep trying to communicate, on account of being a prolific writer — who somehow goes nearly a year without publishing a thing — yet I’m ten drafts deep and I still can’t get the wording right. 

But there’s this thing I understand, and I want others to as well. When the lighting is just right, at sunset or sunrise, or when you turn your head in the perfect way — you can see the true shape of everything. It’s in the air, the thing we’re surrounded by but seemingly always overlooking. And it gives off so much heat you can see it shimmering — when you get that just right angle — and even though it’s real it’s also effervescent; you can’t hold it the way you might everything else.

And this is the thing I see in everyone I know — and today I see it in me too.

It’s the loveliness of life — that I can justify with descriptive traits, like the beauty of your smile or the conviction of my caring — but I think that’s to miss the forest for the trees. Despite each themselves contributing to this beauty, none of them truly are it. Even though you can hold a sapling as you plant it, you can never touch the woodland itself; it’s a different kind of thing. 

It just is.

There is a value to life. To you. And at sunrise and sunset — at the dinner table and on the phone and while playing board games — it’s as real and ever present as the warm air. When you breathe it in everything feels worthwhile and safe.

It just is.

And there’s a different kind of laugh to understanding that.

Last night I died.

And today I want to be happy too. 

When I’m not, I don’t always feel like I deserve to be; and when I am, I don’t always realize it’s okay to feel this — I’m too distracted by what I’m feeling. In both cases, I suppose. 

Well I want to be happy. I want to be loved. I want it to be okay to want this. 

Last night I died.

I think about narratives a lot. I live in a world of stories, and all that. I think about the flow and rhythm of it beating, and the ways the words and pictures can make you feel. 

And sometimes I wish being alive was more like a story. Immortal and forever, where changes can stick. 

Well that’s not life — just because you powerfully overcome something in one moment doesn’t mean it won’t be back to haunt you in the next. Life is a struggle, and it’s not a straight path. It’s multidimensional.

And I really wish I didn’t have to keep dealing with the same problems. I just want to be okay — for once. Or more accurately, I want that once to be always — I just want the change to stick. But that’s not how life works. Some days you’re happy and some days you’re not. And in a different way that’s okay, even though it never feels like that on the sad ones. 

Last night I died.

There’s this strength that I wanted to have once. To so powerfully exist as myself it made it okay for others simply to be, in whatever way that is for them. That I could show people it’s alright not to be alright sometimes; that it isn’t a failure to feel sad from time to time — or even all of it. That it doesn’t make you lesser.

I never thought I was enough of anything else to really help anyone; but I thought maybe I could be enough of myself to put the people I care for at ease. To assure them that a story that bends back on itself is still a good one. That I could somehow lessen their struggles, maybe just a bit, like this. That to be human is to have a lot of different traits; and that no one is a simple narrative, in the way so many works of fiction trick us into thinking.

So I wanted to display the kind of strength that lets you feel okay with this fact. And I don’t know if I have that anymore — or have what it takes to get it. But, either way, it’s still alright to be me.

Last night I died.

And that bothers me, in part because I really like the people in my life. I don’t want them to disappear. And I don’t think I always spend my time best, but I enjoy the things I get to do and the presence of others I get to share in. 

I like the taste of salt and the way my family laughs. 

I like when I make someone else smile — and I like that other people like me enough to spend their energy trying to make me do the same.

I like the way I can put on music, and pictures will fill my mind. 

I don’t know — I know the world isn’t perfect, and I’ve never thought that I was. But there are good things in it, and they make me happy.

I don’t know why — but more and more I’ve woken up happy that I get to wake up at all.

Maybe it’s greed — but there are things I do still want. There are other things — more accurately additional things — than the ones I have, that I think would make me happy too. There are things that might help fill the emptiness I sometimes feel.

But still, I think… I think I’m happy.

I’m trying, I think.

To hold on — to live well.

I don’t know if I will be a month from now, but I’ll try anyway.

And I’m happy with myself — for all of it, because I don’t know how I could expect anything else.

Last night I died. But today…

Today, for this day, I feel like I am now capable of empathy and forgiveness for all the things I used to hate myself for being. It’s okay Max, I don’t think it was your fault, even if you did. I know you judged yourself, but I see who you were, and I accept you, and still think you’re worthy of value — even if I can’t always see it about myself right now. 

Maybe one day I’ll reread what I wrote here when I’m in a similar spiral to those that have all too often filled my past. Blaming myself for weakness that’s not really there, and I’ll reread these words. Some day in the future you’ll be able to see that it’s okay. You weren’t as terrible as you thought you were. It’s okay, Max.

I don’t think you’re empty.

I’ll make that commitment to you, future me. Every day we’re dying, and still I think living is worth it. The universe is full of value solelybecause we exist, and every memory I get to make with all the people I love makes the world a little bit better. So I forgive you, for whatever you can’t in this moment. I still think you’re worthy of all the things you don’t.

And I think everyone else is too.

So it’s okay that you’re happy Max. You’re allowed to be that way sometimes. I think you deserve that, even if the thought of it makes you want to cry. You’re not empty, no more so than anyone else. You don’t deserve to suffer, just like everyone else — you’re not as special as you think. So please try to see that too. 

It’s okay to be you. 

Tonight I’m happy, and tomorrow I hope you can be too. 

Last night I died.

But the day after…