Suicidal in Heaven – A Journey of Choices

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59

LIX

I leave a place where I had everything and go into a place where I have nothing. Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing where I am now. Not even darkness. I’m all there is. I look for something, I don’t find anything. I try to move, but I can’t. All I can do is stay in the nothing, wondering how it’s possible to exist a place (I don’t know if it’s a place) where absolutely nothing exists. The only thing that exists is me, and something tells me I only exist in a way I can’t understand. I exist without existing, I think. Time passes (I don’t feel it, but it’s obvious it has to pass, right?) and nothing happens. Then, I begin to think, I begin to wonder where I am. It’s not hell. If it was, at least, I’d be feeling the heat. And it’s not heaven either. At least I don’t think it’s heaven, it can’t be. This is too different from heaven, unless paradise is a concept, an idea, but that actually doesn’t exist. No, it’s not that. If hell is real, in sense and concept known to Earth, then heaven must also be like this. So, I’m in a different place, not heaven or hell. I’m also not on Earth, I’m sure of that. So, the question hangs: where am I? There was something between heaven and hell, what was it? I really should have paid more attention to religion. Was it limbo? No, I think that’s a concept from comic books. Or was it where babies went if they died before being baptized? I remember reading something about someone putting an end to it, or declaring it didn’t exist. Nothing prevents both information from being true. But it wasn’t limbo, there was something… Purgatory! That’s it! Purgatory. Where people are sent to be “cleaned” before entering heaven… Heaven… but who am I here? I’m a suicidal, I was in hell, I was in the place I should be. How can I be in the purgatory? How can a suicidal be in a place that exists to clean sins that allow people to enter paradise? Unless my concept is mistaken, or maybe Lucifer got tired of me. Or, I don’t know, maybe he just didn’t want someone like me in hell. Even if I deserved to be there, maybe I was too much work, maybe I was too boring to be there. The lord of hell got tired of someone who should be there, the story of my life. I always bored everyone, no one could stand me for too long. I was always, and not so deep down, a difficult person to live with. I was always difficult to handle. Too stubborn, no flexibility, with unshakable truths. The fact that I always wanted to be smartest person in the room also never helped. Like the time they did that “joke” of why a cartoon that was set during the Stone Age celebrated Christmas if it was, clearly, before Christ. Everyone laughed and I began to explain that the Catholic church had recycled a dozen of other celebrations that already existed that time of the year. Why couldn’t I just be normal and laugh, why couldn’t I just ignore a question with a comic tone and kind of rhetoric? ’Cause I am annoying. I’m so annoying even Lucifer couldn’t handle me, now I’m here in purgatory, waiting for something to happen, too bad there was nothing where I am. I’ll spend eternity in nothing, ’cause I don’t deserve heaven. Suicidals don’t go to heaven, they go to hell and just leave there when they bug Lucifer himself. It must be some sort of record. I’m good at this kind of stuff, in pushing people away (and apparently demons too). I miss hell, at least there were things there. Of course, I don’t miss the heat. Every time I remember that, I miss that place a little less, but then I miss it again. There were people, demons, tortures, drinks, food, fear, concerts, sex… Things, and things are important. I just found that out, you begin to value things when you have nothing. Even torture is better than nothing. I wanted to feel hungry… I don’t think I’ll feel hungry for some time after I experienced in the Circle of Gluttony. But, nonetheless, I wished I felt hungry. I don’t know why, maybe ’cause I could simply feel something. During my last years, a little over a decade, actually, eating was one of the few remaining pleasures I had in my life. Eating, reading and writing, not necessarily in that order, were the only pleasures I had. Sad? I don’t know, anyway… I loved to eat, even fish. Fish is healthy, fish is tasty, but fish is difficult to eat. Damn fish bones. I liked eating fish, but right after the first bite I already felt lazy, because I found a damn fishbone in all my first bites. It bugged me deeply, having to be careful to eat, chewing and fearing to choke is a horrible experience. But there’s nothing you can do, fish is a complex meat. That’s why beef is superior to all of them. It’s purely and simply easier, and infinitely superior when it comes to flavor. Even a second rate beef is tastier than a fish cooked to perfection. Speaking of food, I can talk about my Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I know it’s a serious illness, I know that in reality I didn’t suffer from that, but I like to thing I did. I hate odd numbers, hate them. But how is this connected to food? I had to eat two potatoes, or two steaks, or two pieces of lasagna every time… could never be one, not even when it was being served. It could never be a spoon of rice, or a portion of beans, everything had to be in pairs. TV volume? 2, 4, 6… it didn’t matter it four was too loud, two too low and three perfect. I’d always choose the option that wasn’t the right one, just to avoid odd numbers. And the funny thing is, at least in my opinion, it was me who had made me that way. I don’t know exactly how it started, maybe with French fries, but I’m aware that it was me who put that setup on myself. I think the good news, at least for me, is that it’s never caused me any harm. I could look weird, but aren’t we all weird in some level? Maybe it did my harm, I just didn’t notice. But I prefer to believe that it didn’t… I’ve always kept that in mind… My mind… I’ve always put a lot of things in my mind, usually nothing that was in there existed also in the real world. I’ve always seen so much, I’ve always been so much in my mind, a pity I could never make the transposition of what existed only in one place into the world. I’ve always been a lot of things on my mind, but I’ve never been anything in the world. No, I was something in the world, a boring depressive suicidal. It would’ve been better not being anything. How am I like that? It’s not a surprise I’ve been alone for so long, that I’ve spent more than five years without hooking up with anyone. I spent so much time alone I was certain I’d gotten my virginity back, and I was wondering if could consider myself a VM* again (does anyone still uses VM to refer to someone who has never been kissed, or am I ruining my age and generation by saying it?). It didn’t seem likely that these two things would happen, but it also didn’t seem possible for someone to spend so much time without “practicing it”. Unless it was a choice. Although… It was a choice not having anyone, the only bad part was that the option wasn’t mine. I could pretend the blame/problem was them, but I’m in a place that can grant me access to heaven, so, I’m not going to lie, the responsibility was all mine. I was always too shy, probably a shyness with some sort of disease level, and I never knew how to have a conversation. I never cared about the things the world cared about, I like complex subjects and that would make me look smart. Unfortunately, talking about quantum physics, even if it was just as a layman and in superficial terms, it’s not a good “move”. I was someone who couldn’t talk to a stranger and, even if I could, I’d have nothing to talk about. I wasn’t / I’m not a sweet talker, there were no ways to break my bad sequence. Actually, there was a way: a woman just grab me. But that seemed impossible to happen, and on Earth, probably was. Fortunately, I’d killed myself and ended up in hell, and in hell it wasn’t impossible. She proved it… She…What did she mean when she said all I had to do was to choose? What choice? I had made the choice of finding out her name, on the contrary, I wouldn’t have asked. I’m right, am I not? No, probably not. If I was, she’d have probably answered me. Or could’ve been she was just playing with it, it wouldn’t be the first time a woman toyed with my feelings. And yes, she had toyed with my feelings. We had sex! I can’t see sex just as sex, it’s an extremely intimate moment. How can anyone consider such a beautiful act, so complex and intimate, as something smaller? Sex is never just sex. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t do it a lot, I’d always tried to give meaning to the act. I don’t know… It doesn’t matter, I don’t think I need to worry about that anymore. Specially if I stay her in purgatory, where nothing exists. Maybe I deserve the place I’m in, I’ve always lived inside myself, inside my own head, and now I’m in a place where only that exists. I think it makes sense that I’m here. I think it’s more right to be here than in hell. Paper to dry my hand, I hate paper to dry my hand. Actually, I hate the way bathrooms hand out paper to you. Not all of them, of course. The middle class ones. Rich people bathrooms have towels and people handing out towels. The less rich ones have an automated system, where you put your hand under it and a piece of paper comes out. The lower middle class bathrooms just put the paper on the sink, it’s kind of disgusting, ’cause people take the paper with their wet hands and soak up the ones below the one they took, but it’s better to be disgusting with paper than just pieces of it. The ones I hate are the middle class ones, where just a small part of the paper hangs out the apparatus you have to pull. Who invented that? And who thought it was a good idea? It’s a terrible idea, your wet hand “weakens” the paper, it breaks when you pull down. You have to dry your hands in pieces, then turn a “lever” on the side so more paper can come out. It renders the act of drying your hands useless, ’cause everything the soap and water cleaned get dirty again with the fecal coliforms that are on the apparatus. I hated that when I was alive. Why am I thinking about this? Maybe I’m going crazy… Are typewriters more evolved, when it comes to text production, than computers? The electric ones, of course. The electric typewriter has the option of erasing mistakes, of underlining and use bold fonts. You can also choose the distance between lines (one, one and a half, and two), you can justify and align the text to the right. And there’s also the fact you write printing put. The advantages of a computer are the grammar check, you can justify the text and you can make as much copies as you want. But the computer doesn’t have the sound of the typewriter. In the beginning it may seem an advantage, but after some time I began to miss (and even have difficulty of focusing) without the characteristic noise of the typewriter. I can’t say which is the evolution of which. In the strict sense of writing, not what comes after. Funny… I like technology, I thought it was fantastic (when it comes to a depressive person) to live in the future. But there was something the future had given us that I couldn’t find better than what the past had: books. Not in the sense of authors and stories, but the debate of physical versus digital. Reading in the digital form is not reading. I tried to read like that once, I couldn’t. Clearly, reading in digital form isn’t reading. There is a mistaken comprehension of what is reading. Reading is not to read all the letters of a book and give meaning and comprehending what’s written. That’s a very superficial conception and analysis of what reading is. Reading is much more than that. Reading is about smelling the ink on the paper, feeling the weight of the book, is fighting against the pain on your back (for not sitting on the correct position to read over 100 pages all in once) ’cause the story is fantastic and engaging, it’s reading just one book ’cause you can’t put it down. With e-readers, none of that exists. There’s no smell ’cause there’s no ink or paper, you can find a comfortable position ’cause the weight of the equipment barely exists, you can read several books and at the same time. Reading a real book is a struggle against your own body, but a fight that’s always lost when the quality of the story speaks louder. Reading on an e-reader is purely and simply seeing letters, words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters, there’s no love, passion, surrender. How can anyone defend digital against analogical in this case? Ok, I know my argument probably wasn’t very clear, but it because this subject makes me agitated, I love physical books so much to be able to argue, there’s too much feelings. And I may have given a check-mate to anyone who disagrees with me. They may argue that, if you stop to think about it, I’m wrong, but it’s impossible to think dispassionately about the subject. The feeling is what matters. Another advantage of physical books: bookcases. Is there anything more beautiful and better to embellish and furnish (I think that’s not the word I’m looking for) a house than bookcases and more bookcases? No. I loathe sand. I hate it almost as much as I hate heat. That must make it quite clear I’m not a fan of the beach. The reason why I hate sand is that it’s messy, it sticks on you. It’s impossible to wash that substance away from your body, from your clothes. The last time I went to the beach, I wore sneakers, I know, it’s absurd, but there are reasons for that; the first reason it made me wear sneakers was because I thought I wouldn’t have to step on the sand, I went there to help some people to tape a story on jumping. In my head, I needed sneakers ’cause I’d have to climb a hill, and it makes more sense to do exercises in sneakers than in slippers. The big problem is that the final jump was on the sand, which made me step on that substance I hated so much. The second reason that I went to the beach wearing sneakers was to prevent my feet from touching directly on the sand. Of course, it didn’t work. I don’t know what kind of magic sand has, but it can infiltrate any space, no matter how small is the opening. I didn’t just soiled my feet, but I felt it dirty for more than a week, and I’m sure that, even after three years, I could still feel the sand in my sneakers. In the end, I just got tired of waiting for that demonic substance to disappear, so I threw the sneakers away. Fortunately, I was smart enough not to go there with sneakers I liked. Another reason that makes me hate sand is that it doesn’t matter if you don’t take an item of your suitcase, and your hotel/house/inn is 60 miles away from the beach, when you use that piece of clothe there’ll be sand all over it. How is that possible? It’s the most similar thing (the second one, the first is the heat) to infernal torture there is on Earth. There was something I loved when I was alive: routine. Doing the same things everyday was something that made me feel really good! Waking up always the same time, eating the same things, doing the same activities, going to sleep the same time… It made me smile a lot. Of course, to every action there’s a reaction. In other words, if I love routine, I hated it when it was broken. To break the routine was something that deeply bothered me. Specially if it was something that was not specified in advance. And at least a four days advance. Hours don’t count as advance. I didn’t like doing different things, so, in order to do them, I had to prepare psychologically. And the only way of preparing the correct way was with a four days space of between today and the day my routine will be broken. I used to spend two weeks preparing myself to get a haircut, pure and simply ’cause it would force me to leave my house and do something I didn’t do everyday. My parents were experts in getting on my nerves for breaking my routine, since I didn’t work (at least I wasn’t under any kind of employment and didn’t have a salary) they thought they could ask me to do favors to them. And I couldn’t say no, I had to change my whole routine, leave the house and do something somewhere I didn’t know. And they never gave me a 24 hours heads up. That bothered me in ways few things did (maybe just heat and sand annoyed me more). My head is in a turmoil of thoughts. Everything I’ve ever thought, every idea, theories, conversations, dreams… are present in my mind. I feel I’m about to burst, I need to get out of here. I don’t know how long I can take it. I can’t calm down anymore, so many things in my head. I need it to stop, I need to go back to hell. I’m exhausted of thinking, exhausted of being in the nothing that is purgatory. I’m tired of purgatory!

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