I tried to kill myself.
Not thought of it.
Didn't even "see it play out."
Some people are so vivid in their dreams. Not me. I never dreamed much. And yes, there was a good deal of thought, but I didn't let it idle there. I acted. I wouldn't let myself grow stagnant in thought.
Thought must forge forward. Thought must become action.
Generally a good way to live, not super great for death.
I jumped off a bridge. And it's been months. I spent them thinking, mostly. Why I did it, where I've been and how I got there. A good deal spent on how and why I'll never go there again.
And for those of you who selflessly worry for others, no, I won't.
But I also became a lot closer to myself. And the other guy. And to God. Well, I got farther from God. I just found my own, true, god, waiting patiently dressed as the enemy.
I found him to look a lot like me.
I broke my pelvis and my arm- nasty images. It isn't pretty what the human body tries to do when it greets the ground off of six stories.
Suffice it to say, I didn't look pretty.
But it's okay, because I realized that I wasn't very pretty to begin with. Not in the mirror. I can care less for that. I have more to dwell on than sweating over ideas of sex.
But who I was, after everything, after growth, was still not who I wanted to be.
I'm sitting in my room. It's empty. A bed. White walls. A lamp. An dressing table, mostly empty. What I have to wear fits fine in the closet. And my possessions strewn about the top of the dresser.
Piles. Easily a foot and a half tall.
Books, rocks, knives, Boba Fett, flash cards- all of it.
It's like my entire room was thrown into the void, and the weight of it all crushed it into place.
Order in chaos.
Unity in division.
And not a bad summation of myself.
Morals set for evil, aligned for good.
Lies set to protect.
This is me.
This is my place.
This is my god.
And I thought I'd changed after all this.
Whether it was sitting at the edge, in flight, or in the landing, I thought I'd changed.
But I'm still here.
I hide the truth as I need to.
I use it to my advantage.
I hurt people who I feel deserve it.
I protect those I feel need it.
I use them to keep me afloat.
I desperately want to help.
I desperately seek the truth.
And that's fine.
I can be ugly, and I can be beautiful.
It's not a matter of good and bad, it's a matter of intention and perspective.
We are art. We are poetry.
We are murder, and romance, tears in both pain and joy.
And that's okay. Art spans the spectrum.
Times can get tough. And we can do ugly things.
But still we strive.
We cling to hope.
I used to have faith in God.
And now I throw that faith in myself.
Oil for these creaking joints, air to these shaking lungs.
For volition and purpose.
That the blood doesn't rust in my veins.
And should it pump out of my skin, it will be beauty and human effort and not in vain.
Have faith in yourself.
You made it through
You have a one hundred percent survival rate.
I survived a concrete pipeline to my spine.
I survived betrayal. I survived a band of thieves and murderers.
What did you survive?
Bad romance at too early an age?
Blood that carried poison better than wine?
You came through it.
Find strength in it, and find strength in yourself.
Be the god you could not find elsewhere.