laments-of-a-fool

[laments-of-a-fool]

Olivium is MOVING OUT.

[laments-of-a-fool]

[laments-of-a-fool]

20th of November

I had been wandering around the countryside, much like I did in June, when, instead of that guy stopping, it was your family who found me and took me to their home, which, for some reason, was located around Brabrand.

Your mother wasn’t very fond of me and made her feelings clear, while your father remained stoic. Your sister, however, was a bit more friendly.

You weren’t there at the time.

We were seated at the dinner table, eating, as your family grilled me about my actions and how I had ruined your life. When your mother had had enough of my presence, she told your sister to take care of me.

Your sister, whom I should nickname Wild Cow, led me to a room where a record player sat on the floor.

She closed the door, and all sounds outside vanished. Sitting in front of the player, she gestured for me to join her.

The record was of her singing a beautiful tune.

Can your sister sing?

Afterward, it was time for me to leave.

As I walked away from your house, I suddenly saw you standing ahead of me.

I called out to you, but you didn’t respond.

You stepped back, fading away until you vanished completely. You were never truly there, and I continued walking into the night.

[laments-of-a-fool]

22nd of August

I had a dream where I was working with you and Arla on a science project on my computer. Being around you felt overwhelming, and I found myself needing space from time to time. To cope, I would leave the room and take walks in the most random parts of Aarhus, letting you focus on the work.

I wandered down winding stairs in old apartment buildings, crossed busy city streets with no care for the traffic, and encountered Tom Cruise and Angelina Jolie along the way, where we had a nice conversation.

But I kept walking.

What mattered was the act of walking itself. I was running away from you and the ease with which you seemed to get along with Arla.

You weren’t my friend then, and you’re not now.

After some time, I retraced my steps back to you.

With each step, I let go of my anger, resentment, expectations, and frustration.

The experiment was nearly finished, with you doing most of the work. Then, you had to step away for a moment, leaving me with Arla. It was an awkward moment. She immediately rushed into the next procedure and messed it up, all while grinning and making lewd jokes aimed at anyone who could hear,Then you stepped into the room again, took in the sight of her and me together, and took your place next to her, pushing me aside. including me—definitely about you.

It put me in a bad mood again, so I told her to stop goofing around and show some respect for the rules of the project.

Then you stepped into the room again, took in the sight of her and me together, and took your place next to her, pushing me aside. Your back was turned to me, and the roles we had once held seemed to reverse.

I became the target of harsh, unfair words—my presence barely tolerated.

You stepped back into the conversation as if you had never left, showing her something in your hand that didn’t quite resemble a dildo, but could easily have been used in a similar way.

All talk of the project ended.

You told her to go ahead and use it, then, with your back still to me, you held it up over your shoulder and said, “…and Flavius can lick it later…”

That was the only time I felt you ever looked at me in a sexual way, and you chose to say that.

You mocked me.

I was nothing more than an afterthought for you.

An eager dog willing to please you whenever it had a bone dangling in front of its face.

It hurt.

It was disrespectful.

Did I deserve it?

In that moment, I grabbed your chair and threw you to the floor.

"Asshole!" I yelled.

I left again, descending the stairs and walking past city streets full of celebrities—people I should have stopped and talked to, but instead, I kept walking. Eventually, I found myself back on my street, in front of my house in Romania. My parents were there, and I broke down in their arms.

I think I would have told them everything, but I woke up before I could.

I apologize to Arla for dragging her name through the mud, but she was, in that moment, a stand-in for another dormmate of ours and for my own insecurities.

[laments-of-a-fool]

19th of August

Last night, I had a thought that shook me: it might be easier for me if you had died. I can’t stand knowing that I’m the reason you’re gone, that I drove you away. I still see your face in my mind from that day, the moment you looked at me as you drove off I saw you in the mirror. That’s probably the last time you’ll ever see me, and honestly, that’s for the best. You don’t need me in your life.

But I need you.

And so I dreamt that I had superpowers—that I could escape from everything, teleport myself away from my problems. Away from my mother, who in this dream always asked for something, for me to take more responsibility. Even her reasonable demands feel unbearable to me. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to stop resenting my parents. I blame them for making me a failure, for passing down all their flaws.

I needed to get away from them, from everything, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I’d finally be kinder to myself if I could.

In the dream, I was so free with this power. I could ignore all my responsibilities, vanish whenever I wanted, and chill anywhere in the world. But I wasn’t entirely selfish—I used my gift to help people. I wanted to do good, even though I felt like a bad person at my core. I became something of a superhero, though mostly just a convenient mode of transportation. I was an unprofitable taxi service.

Still, I was alone.

And then, you appeared.

For the first time in months, you came into my dream. Oh, how I’ve missed you. I’m forgetting you, and I hate it. I don’t want to forget.

I’ve been clinging to the tiniest things to keep you close in my mind. For a week now, I’ve been sleeping with the ketchup dip tray you left behind—or maybe abandoned. It was a Christmas gift from your family.

You had superpowers in my dream, too, but I couldn’t quite figure out what they were. You were another hero. You are amazing.

Scream at me.

In the dream, our relationship felt like it did on June 1st. If I had known that would be the last time we spoke, would I have done something differently? I was hurt, stubborn, and volatile. I was wrong. I am terrified of what you would say if I reached out now.

So there you were, but I kept you at arm’s length—cordial, but distant. We didn’t really speak. We were in your superhero “lair,” though it was really just part of my home back in Romania. I’ve dreamt of you in my actual home more than once.

Am I a monster haunting your dreams? I’d accept that fate if it meant you still thought about me.

Then Olivium came in, looking happy. He walked straight past me to you, who were focused on a computer screen. He told you he’d won a trip—something football-related—and wanted you to take him to the bus. He didn’t even glance in my direction, though maybe I know why.

And maybe he doesn’t even like football in real life, but in the dream, he did. Still, I couldn’t have helped him even if I’d wanted to. I’d just used my powers to teleport one of my dream “friends” to their job, and I needed time to recharge. I seemed to genuinely like her, helping her out of my own free will.

See, I was a good person. Why can’t you see that I’m trying to be good? You made me want to be the best version of myself. Now, though, you make me want to be the worst. I push people away because I’m scared of hurting them. I am good at hurting people.

I texted you once: I like violence. Did I mean it?

Anyway, you and your mysterious powers accepted Olivium’s request, and you left. I stayed behind to hold down the fort, watching the monitors for any updates. They were advanced, futuristic screens—one large display filled with swirling zeros and ones, and another, smaller monitor that stretched the height of the wall beside me with gibberish on.

I wasn’t going to pay attention. I’d already done a good deed for the day, and our relationship was strained, so I didn’t feel like I should take on your responsibilities. But that couldn’t have been further from the truth. I wanted to clean all your dishes, help with the weekly cleaning, and assist with your schoolwork—well, after I learned more Danish.

I just wanted to make your life easier. If you were happy, I’d be happy too.

Are you happy now? I want you to be happy, but part of me also wants you to feel the pain I feel.

But anyway, I wasn’t paying attention. Something on my phone caught my interest.

Until it didn’t.

I looked up for once and saw the small screen, which had turned an ominous shade of green. Lines of writing were pulsating in and out. I didn’t know what it meant at first, but then I realized. The screen was somehow connected to your subconscious—like your watch was synced to your phone—and it was telling you to fix your sleep schedule because it was fucked. But that wasn’t what grabbed my attention.

What scared me was the words.

"I am in pain."

"Help."

"I am dying."

"Please."

The messages flashed one after another. Panic flooded through me. I dropped everything and screamed your name.

We weren’t on the best terms. I wanted you to struggle. I wanted you to feel the pain I was feeling. But I didn’t want harm to come to you. And now you were dying. You were afraid. I didn’t know where you were. What was happening? How could I help?

I screamed your name again, desperate. I punched the screen like it would give me answers. Tears poured down my face. What was going on? I am crying so much and can't do anything to stop it. Help you. Please, tell me what you are feeling.

I’m a monster, and here I am, on my knees, begging you for a sign. I’ve been waiting. But you hate me.

And then the screen went black.

You died.

Without telling me how you felt.

I was left to agonize in silence. I opened my mouth to scream, but I could only whimper pathetically.

Please live. Someone has to. I’m too much of a coward to end my own life. There’s nothing left for me to live for. I did this to you. And I’ll do it again if I would have the chance to. I’ll be better at it, bolder, crazier.

I have so few photos of you—just two, without your consent. The rest are mostly the ones you took.

Are your eyes blue? Sometimes I can't remember, and I have to look it up.

Why did you have to die? I can't stop howling your name.

Please, come back to me.

I had the power to come to you, but I couldn't make it work. I couldn't call you either.

Do you still have the same number? Not that I've tried calling or texting, but if you had to change it because of me…

Why did you give me this much power?

Why?

Why?

Why?

I'm angry that you left. I'm angry that you died. I was crying on the floor, unable to find any comfort.

This you never got to read the diary.

He just saw me as a friend who wouldn't speak to him, for reasons I couldn't explain.

Did you ever suspect?

Please tell me that you didn’t.

I need to know that you only saw me as a friend, until you didn’t. Insidious. Insincere.

Then the big screen lit up with your face. It was a video.

Your last will.

"If you are seeing this, it means I am dead. Please, call my mom."

You started speaking Danish, and I just continued to break down. I know nothing about you, I realize that now.

We weren’t close enough for me to even know your mom’s name, and yet here you were, telling me to call her. I couldn’t understand what else you were saying. I promise I tried, but I couldn’t help myself from trying to understand.

I don't know if I ever truly loved you, or how you made me feel. And I’m really scared that I don’t know what love is. But I'd like to believe that’s what I’m feeling for you.

To this day.

I promise I’m trying to get better. You fear me. I scared you.

It's my fault.

Everything is. The root of all evil—when you look it up online, my face comes up first.

Then something moved in the corner, a shadow. I wiped my tears, stopped wailing, and tried to see who it was.

It was you.

So much different than when you left. You looked like you’d been beaten down repeatedly, left to heal over and over. Your eyes were vacant.

Your appearance scared me, but I jumped into your arms for a hug.

I can only hug you in dreams. I was too ashamed to hug you back in real life because doing so would have made me feel greedy and wrong - I wanted so much more from you.

No one's touched me even by mistake in weeks.

I am living with this regret around my neck.

When you finally opened your mouth, you told me that your powers took you to the future, and it was a grim one. A disaster of unknown proportions happened. It took you almost a full year until you were able to come back to me.

And you did die.

You had to adapt to survive what happened to you. You were turned into a vampire.

You are scary, the whole time you were speaking, your voice was flat. You are dangerous. You are cold.

If I see you outside of these dreams I would run in terror and drown myself in alcohol. I brought upon you so much sadness. It's my fault you are dead inside and I can't live with myself.

If you see me, you can call the police to take me away.

I am guilty.

I deserve suffering.

Give it to me.

Lie.

Say that you saw me.

That I contacted you.

Threatened your life.

Please, just think of me and give me a hint of your thoughts.

Hate me, say it loud and proud.

I am waiting for today to end, all plans for the future are gone.

I need consequences.

I need to disappear behind bars, not just hide in my room. I am crying in bed writing this. I came back from Danish class, drank some alcohol, and wrote this.

I can hear the new people living in your room. Why can't I ever hear you?  

Fuck Aquarius full moon.

[laments-of-a-fool]

3rd of September

I think I might have done something foolish. I started chanting your name in my mind—for what felt like three minutes straight—and then I must have drifted off to sleep.

In the dream, we were in the common room, though it was a strange mash-up of other places from my life. We were going through some of your things, cleaning up, when we stumbled upon some Legos you had. Ms. White was there too, so the three of us started playing together.

At some point, I found a map of Denmark and asked you about it, just like I used to talk to you about accents. You started showing me the geographical regions, explaining them in that familiar way.

Then, I found some other rubbish, and when I looked at you and Blanka, you both seemed so comfortable together. It stirred something ugly in me—jealousy. The thought crept in: What is she doing with him?

I was done.

Suddenly, the scene shifted, and I was at a lunch table. A Black girl sat across from me, chatting with the people next to her. She mentioned she’d lived in Romania, in a neighborhood near mine. I made some small talk, and she said she didn’t enjoy the mountainside—too many stares from tourists. I miss speaking my language with someone other than my family.

Then the dream changed again, and I was on a bus that also felt like the common room. It was filled with people—some I might have known from school, others who seemed like new faces, maybe people who had recently moved in.

I asked them to draw something. Maybe it was related to you—I’m not sure. One of them sketched what looked like the structure of a nucleotide. As I looked closer, I noticed writing on the right-hand side. Was it a poem?

I made a mistake. I inquired about the contents of the poem because it was so random, and in my attempt to address it, I messed up. I asked, Which entity did this?

I felt the weight of my mistake immediately. Embarrassment washed over me, and I wanted to melt into the ground.

That’s when I became aware of myself again—lying in my room, fully conscious of the fact that I’d been dreaming.

The right side of my body started hurting intensely, a sharp, persistent ache. At the same time, with my left eye, I began to see white writing—scribbles, like fragmented sentences flashing before me. It was too fast to read clearly, the words scratched and fleeting, shifting rapidly from one to the next.

There might have been auditory hallucinations, too. I thought I heard something while I was chanting your name—something about love or maybe my love being delicious? I’m not sure. The windows were open, and there were people outside, so it might have been their voices drifting in.

But it didn’t feel like it.

The white text was etched against a black void, stark and unsettling. I couldn’t read most of it, but I managed to catch fragments. It felt accusatory like I was being admonished. Maybe it was expressing disappointment. Maybe it was something worse.

Was this entity telling me I’d breached some kind of contract? Or was it trying to start one?

I panicked. My mind raced, and I blurted out in desperation: I want Mil back.

And then another thought hit me—was it threatening me? Was it telling me not to interfere with my dreams? Was that its condition to let me be? Maybe it was angry because those dream people had already helped me so much by putting you in my dreams so often. They deserve a raise.

Now, I’m scared. I feel like I’ve lost my grip on what’s real.

I can’t shake the question—what was the full message? Did I unknowingly make a deal with something? Am I bound to something I don’t understand?

And worst of all, I wish I could warn you. I don’t even know what I’d be warning you about, but you deserve to know... just in case.

[laments-of-a-fool]

3rd of October

In my dream, you were sitting at a table. It was broad daylight, and the scene was set in front of one of the quaint cafes in the old part of the city. You weren’t alone—Ms. White was sitting across from you, and the two of you seemed to be enjoying yourselves, laughing and talking as if the world outside didn’t exist.

I was just passing by, trying to keep my head down, but then you turned.

It took you a moment to recognize me, but when you did, panic surged through me.

Without thinking, I dropped to the ground, crawling desperately under the tables to get away, to hide.

It was just as clumsy as that night when Quonga ended—when I tried to duck but didn’t know how, and everything fell apart. This time, too, I wasn’t successful.

Somehow, I ended up under your table.

And then your head appeared, peeking out from beneath the tablecloth.

I froze, staring at you like a deer caught in headlights.

You, on the other hand, just smiled at me—a lazy, easy smile that made it all the more impossible to move or breathe.

I didn’t know what to do—whether I should run away from you or stay and risk you filing a restraining order against me.

Was it even worth staying? Were you still in this city at all?

Then you broke the silence.

You asked me how I’d been.

I didn’t know what to say. Should I tell you the truth—that I’ve been miserable? Or should I lie to make you feel better? I didn’t even know if I could talk to you. That thought scared me more than anything else. Anything I said could easily become ammunition against me if you chose to use it that way.

So I raised the question outright. Can I even talk to you? Is it allowed? Could I message you right now and beg for a reply without suffering the obvious consequences?

The truth is, I don’t like the real Mil. The real Mil has the power to hurt me, deeply, even without meaning to. And that’s the worst part—it’s not even intentional.

But the Mil sitting across from me, the one looking at me with a quiet, almost apologetic expression, seemed... different. When he heard my reply, he said he was sorry, and it felt genuine. He told me he really wanted to know how I’d been.

It was an unexpectedly intimate moment under the cover of that tablecloth.

And so, cautiously, I decided to open up. Just a little. I gave him the truth, but only in small, manageable doses.

I have to admit—since Friday, I’ve been stalking your Steam profile. I know when you’re online and when you’re not. I know what game you’re playing right now and for how long. You’ve logged an average of 75 hours over the past 14 days.

And I’m scared for you. (Update from the future - you crossed the 110-hour mark)

Five hours a day, mainly playing War Thunder. It reminds me so much of the old you—the version of you that terrified me. The one who stayed in his room all day, talking, though I never knew why or to whom. There were so many unknowns, and those unknowns filled me with fear.

And now, I feel sadness mixed with panic. Why do you have so much time? Why are you gaming late into the night? 17 hours a day. Your sleep schedule is clearly messed up, but that never used to stop you from going to school.

Are you even still in school?

Kasernefestival isn’t even over, and yet here you are already back on the computer. Do you still have a job?

No education, no money, and nowhere to live?

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to turn out like this. I thought you’d be... more humane. I thought you’d be compassionate.

Maybe I was wrong.

Or maybe I was right—about Ms. White.

[laments-of-a-fool]

2nd of September

I dreamt that we, along with another girl, were dancing together in a club, our bodies fighting for yours on the dance floor. I got the sense that she was your girlfriend and I an interloper. She was stunningly beautiful, but I didn’t pay much attention to that. What mattered to me was that we were spending time together like we used to, and it made me genuinely happy.

However, she wasn’t happy. Because of that, I was pushed away—yet again.

Suddenly, I found myself transformed into a Korean woman on an airplane, absolutely terrified because there was a zombie outbreak onboard.

Oops.

But, as a first-class heroine, I prevailed against the imminent threat of death. I contacted someone who could potentially resolve the crisis. Admittedly, the scenario felt like a blatant ripoff of Train to Busan, but no one has ever accused me of lacking imagination—or at least, not yet.

Why didn’t you demand more from me? I wanted to give you different responses when we talked - I was having parallel conversations in my mind. When we talked, I felt that I was sticking to safe, boring, idiotic responses. Why didn’t you encourage me to be genuine?

Anyway, somehow, I, being her, managed to land the plane, albeit roughly, and made my way to a house located in the middle of a bustling, zombie-infested city. This house belonged to patient zero.

There, I encountered some intriguing characters, and what followed felt like an elaborate movie, with detailed dialogue and dynamic interactions. I engaged in some detective work, using a flame to discover a hidden vent. The flame seemed drawn to it, revealing a concealed area filled with strange laboratory equipment and, oddly enough, food.

Yes, there were jars. Lots of jars, packed with... well, let’s just call it "stuff."

Then some bad guys showed up—survivors from outside who were desperate and starving. One of them grabbed a jar that looked like it held kombucha and chugged the SCOBY down without hesitation. Moments later, under our horrified gazes—they started developing black spots all over their bodies. The transformation started. The death of our species was intentional.

Amid the chaos, we seized the jar and hurried to a proper laboratory, guided by the voice on the phone that had been helping us. Somehow, I returned to being myself, but the apocalypse was still ongoing. It was more manageable now, though.

I kept fighting, struggling to survive, until I found myself in your house, standing at your bedroom door.

It was slightly ajar.

You were inside, sitting on your bed.

I stood there, watching you, wanting so badly to knock or step inside. But I couldn’t. Even after everything—after civilization had crumbled—I still couldn’t bring myself to approach you first.

Tomorrow is the Frequens concert. I want to go, but I know you’ll see me.

And you’ll be afraid of me.

And hate me.

You’ll associate those feelings with the band, and I’ll ruin them for you.

Again.

I don’t want that. I want you to reach out first.

And you did.

In the dream, you noticed me. You got up, looked at me for what felt like an eternity, and then started walking toward me.

I was terrified. What were you going to do? Hug me? After all this time, I might push you away instinctively. I don’t want to, but I’m afraid I will.

I don’t deserve to be hugged.

I don’t deserve friends.

Would you scream at me?

Yes, I wanted that—to have you call me out, to confront me, and then say goodbye. Properly, this time. I wanted you to hold up a mirror, show me the monster you see, and then walk away forever.

Would you kiss me?

No, this isn’t a fantasy. This is a dream, and dreams aren’t boundless. Not everything is possible.

Would you kill me?

Maybe you’d have every right to. Maybe, in your eyes, I’m worse than the zombies.

But none of that happened.

You stopped at the door, looked at me for a moment, and then gently closed it. You chose not to see me or speak to me ever again.

I left.

That was your choice. It is your choice.

But I couldn’t accept it. So I made a plan—a grand, desperate plan to rebuild civilization itself. I decided I would become the President of the United States of America.

My journey began in Jacksonville, Florida, where I proclaimed far and wide my intent to restore law and order, to bring humanity back from the brink. I wanted to be a good person—a person so public, so visible, that you wouldn’t be able to avoid me.

At the heart of this endeavor was my hope to prove that I wasn’t someone to fear. I wanted to show you that I could at least be an acquaintance—someone who didn’t haunt your life.

The response was overwhelming. People came in droves, turning the city into something that felt like a carnival. On one side of the city, there was celebration and joy as a glimmer of normalcy returned. On the other side, soldiers—brave and determined—fought tirelessly under my command to push back the hordes of undead.

It was... an experience, to say the least.

And now I wonder—should I force myself into your life like that? Should I be so visible, so inescapable, that your opinion of me shifts whether you want it to or not?

Should I go tomorrow?

For all I know, you’ve dropped out of school and moved back home, never to set foot in this city again

[laments-of-a-fool]

Summer

Nothing worth mentioning happened.

[laments-of-a-fool]

9th of July

Last week was my 24th birthday.

I was happy that day.

And Friday.

Otherwise, the days blurred. I did nothing but watch movies, animes, read books and catch up on the TV shows I put on hold while we spent time together.

You really were my favorite waste of time, because I am not as fulfilled by these activities as I was last year to this day, back when I was still in Romania.

And it's been raining the whole week.

I haven't been doing much crying these couple of days.

I began to resent you.

How could you do this to me so easily?

How could your absence affect me so much?

After all, did I like you as a person more or did I like what you could have given me?

Attention, security, a good time, a guiding hand, a nice face to look at while I lied to you?

I am so distraught.

I don't know what to do. What to say. What to not say. How to be. How not to be.

Was I pretending when I was with you? Or was I finally myself.

I don't know.

I'm back to the old me. The me that hasn't texted my friends in 4 days. There is nothing to say. Nothing happened to me. Nothing will happen to me. I am lost. I am afraid. I will do it again. I can't wait for Friday when I'll talk to Miles again, the Stalking therapist. I want to tell them about making you my God, but that is a bit embarrassing and I wasn't entirely truthful when I wrote about you that way. I exaggerated a lot. I was horny and bored and unsatisfied when I wrote the sexual stuff about you. I didn't consider you a real person in those instances, I just saw a body that made me feel secure, embraced, warm all over, giddy even. But that's all common. I am not the first to think about another person and I will not be the last. Have you thought about someone like that? Come on, don't lie. My only crime was writing it. As if writing it would imply I would actively seek you out. And, Ok, I was shameless in my half-backed attempt to flirt that I often backtracked into an embarrassing mess. Besides those, what other indication did I give that I was into you, that I wanted something more? Ms. White was more forthcoming about her intentions. Have you never liked me either. It's OK if you say it, I don't like me either. Should I have been more truthful? Is that what gets you going? What were you thinking as you read my truth? Horror, no doubt, otherwise we would have been playing together Munchkin now because there's absolutely nothing to do right now with all this rain. I hope you are unhappy and will be so for a long time. I hope you will jump at shadows thinking it's me. I won't make the first move. I talked too much. When school starts I will not stray from my building. You better not stray from yours. And the nasty stuff I wrote about you two becomes more real as time passes. And I am angry at myself because yeah I might have cared about you and I felt despair as you left, but that's only because I know I will not have more material for my delusions. I'll have to face the fact that I am empty, searching for someone to fill me up. You weren't good enough for that. Good riddance.

[laments-of-a-fool]

3rd of July

9:00

Some people after they wake up brew coffee to get through their day. It seems I can't get through mine without brewing up a fresh cup of tears.

I wake up every day feeling like I should have died in my sleep.

More people would welcome that news than would be saddened by it. Or, I don't know, Sheya & Gus, and Sim and my family would be a bit broken up, but the people that I have wronged even though they are in small quantity are weighing me down.

15:00

I woke up from a nap feeling horrible.

I dreamed Mil sent me a huge document in response to my journal in which he replied to everything that I wrote in detail, color-coded my posts based on topic, and started talking about his childhood in detail... I know that this is a nasty delusion, but I dreamed it because a part of me is still diligently waiting for answers, his side of the story.

And I also just thought about Ms. White.

I mean, what if instead of being against me when talking with Mil she would have been on my side and it was just Mil that was scared and decided to break off all contact. What if I was wrong and she was good, and I was the monster thinking so badly of her?

But then I ran again every interaction that we had, and I don't think I was wrong in my first assumption.

She is who she is.

I am who I am.

Both are shaped by our traumatic childhoods.

16:00

I opened up Instagram and cried.

Because it was my birthday yesterday Instagram decided it would be fun to put together a photo collage for me with photos from other people.

There I saw the photo that Farquad took of us and posted on the university's Instagram on the 18th of April when you made lasagna and I supervised you.

I admit, I forgot all about that.

And it seems so far away now, it feels like it happened to someone else, not me.

Because it was a good memory, I didn't put it in the journal.

It appears I only wrote the bad stuff, huh?

I miss you.

[laments-of-a-fool]

30th of August

I had a dream about Ms. White. We were at university in an auditorium, and for some reason, we had to present a video about what we had done during the summer.

She was sitting next to me, but she ignored me the entire time we were waiting for our turns.

When it was her turn, she played a video instead of presenting any slides. The video looked really impressive, and it was clear that Mil had helped her make it.

In the video, she told everyone that she had been terrorized by a crazy person over the summer—me.

As the video played, it distorted my words, just like Wild Cow had done in the police report. Your sister hurt me by how scared she was.

Then Ms. White turned to me, visibly upset, and said she wanted to punch me. I told her she could hit my chest, above my heart. She did, striking a few times as hard as she could, but it didn’t hurt at all—because there was no heart in my chest.

She painted me as the villain and exaggerated everything.

There were days when I enjoyed being her friend, but there were also days when she was too much.

She was everything I wanted, and I hated her for it.

When it was my turn to present, I shared my side of the story, but it sounded like a pathetic attempt to justify my actions.

In the end, I don’t regret the stalking or obsession. Mil had been a good reason for me to wake up, to forget that I was a monster, and to promise myself I’d try to be good.

But now I felt empty as always. I had been crying just the other day about the dream where Mil died, feeling completely overwhelmed.

I started writing reasons to live and reasons to die on post-its: seven for life, fourteen for death. (Update: the reasons to live all fell down from the closet door. Only the reasons to die remain. They cover 1/4 of the door and never fall down.)

The crying stopped when I remembered that I was going to work in a lab this semester, with full access to dangerous chemicals. I was considering choosing something quick and, hopefully, painless.

Ms. White looked a bit uncomfortable, but not particularly regretful.

Her video triggered me again, and I ended my presentation by telling her that she had confirmed my instincts—that she was a bad person too, and she made sure everyone knew it.

I had at least tried to be good.

She could do whatever she wanted and still get the guy. I walked away feeling suicidal again, feeling as though Ms. White would be glad to see me dead.

I thought about texting my therapist, but didn't.

[laments-of-a-fool]

12th of November

I realized I was dreaming because I was in my childhood bedroom. Then I opened my window and screamed your name for everyone to hear. I demanded to see you. for them to bring you to me.

Where are you? I need you.

You are gone.

[laments-of-a-fool]

27th of November

Under the same tree, after I forgave you, we were playing board games.

I miss us.

[laments-of-a-fool]

26th of November

By the lakes near Skjoldhøj, under the shade of a tree and with our feet splashing side by side in the water, you asked for my forgiveness.

It was a magical summer day.

[laments-of-a-fool]

Elections Today

I Want To Drink So Much Alcohol I Forget I Am An Evil Person.

[laments-of-a-fool]

What The Fuck Are You Doing With Your Life!