Energy.

Journal entry no. 5

It's very dark outside right now. It feels later than it is because it's that time of year when the sun starts setting a little earlier and earlier each day. It's raining too. My body feels very relaxed and my mind is altered. I can smell the petrichor. I can hear the rhythmic patter outside my open window and I thought it was such a lovely sound and I decided to journal a little because writing during the rain is a very romantic notion. So here I am. And I was just thinking about energy.

I am energy. I am a conscious being and I am energy. What if, when I die, I am still energy? It doesn't just go away. It's always there. I could still be here, always. Existing as energy. What if I do not remember my previous life. I have no memories. I am energy.

I still have feelings though, maybe even emotions. And I experience loss. What if I can't remember my life, nor am I aware I even had one, but what if I feel the emptiness it life behind? I am sad, and I don't know why. 

Now I am floating in darkness. Floating in space. I see stars, all around me. This is all I see. This is all I know. This is what I am. I am a part of everything and everything is a part of me.

I think, Why do I exist? Why am I conscious? Is everyone? Is that what it means to exist? To be alive. To have consciousness. To be consciousness.

I am comforted by the Mother, or the universe, or whatever exists. And what if she knows I am sad and she knows there is a part of me that feels the loss of the life I had?

But the Mother knows this is just part of my existence and somehow, I know too. Because I chose this and she chose this. Because she is me and I am her. Because I was meant to experience everything, even if it meant it hurt. Because I wanted to experience everything. And being able to experience everything is beautiful. So maybe even pain is beautiful because it means I am capable of experiencing it?

What if that's all we were meant to do? Live. Live in harmony with ourselves. Experience. Experience life.

Soon I will fulfill my purpose yet again. I will live and I will experience. And I won't be scared anymore.

Touch.

Journal entry no. 4

Everyday I see people. Usually, though not always, the same people. We look at each other, and sometimes, we even say hello. We might even chat for a moment or two before we feel we've both run out of things to say and awkwardly excuse ourselves from the conversation long after our eyes started looking for a way out.

Why do I look for a way out? I am not in danger, I tell myself. Yet, I feel uncomfortable. Like there is a disconnect - a disconnect between two souls which are meant to live harmoniously. A disconnect between I and You. 

I see you on a regular basis. I greet you with sincere interest and delight. But I don't think about you. Not often. Hardly at all, really. I don't stop to wonder if you are well. Maybe I should. Maybe I could care more.

I remember reading Miss Peregrin's Home For Peculiar Children (written by Ransom Riggs) and finding that Millard was my favorite character. His peculiarity? He's invisible. So when the main character see's a blanket or sheet or whatever it was over his face, it means something. I'd never thought about what Millard looks like, that even though we can't see his face, he still has one of course. Seeing the outline of it, seeing his features under the sheet made him more real.

Physical contact is something many of us perhaps don't think on enough. Physical contact is a form of intimacy, a form of connection between humans. When you touched me, I felt it. You tapped on my arm and you had never done that before. I felt you. I thought, briefly, in between the touch and whatever it was you wanted to tell me, about that touch and what it meant. That it made me feel you were real, as real as me. 

Not that I ever doubted you were, but I never really grasped it either. How a single touch, how knowing you are real, made me care a little bit more. Like there was a moment of unspoken connection between us beyond the physical contact. 

I think, even though it was a small moment, there could be more moments like that. A moment where it's ok to touch someone's hand. A moment where it's ok to hug a friend. A moment to just be held and drink in the silence.

I think, that maybe, with more moments like that, more people would feel a little less alone and maybe the world would be a little bit of a better place.

Dreams.

Journal entry no. 3

Twice. Twice now I have seen Them. Well, that's not entirely correct. Let me start again.

They have always been here, I think, and I have seen Them many times. In my childhood bedroom, I saw Them standing just outside my window, watching as I slept. In the big white house on the hill, They were there. As I ran through the woods, They chased me and stalked behind every tree. Even in the downtown shops, I saw Them and I knew They wanted me. For what purpose, I never wondered.

They have always been there, even when I could not see Them. I heard Them, I felt Their presence in the shadows beyond the fence, where the dim light from the single street lamp did not reach.

When I felt I could not run fast enough, still I outran Them. When I thought I could not fly high enough, still I flew away from Them. When I hid behind the bushes, desperately trying to quiet my heaving breath, They could not find me. But They were always nearby. Lurking. Waiting.

Twice. Twice now I have seen Them closer than ever before, closer than I thought possible. Twice They have caught up to me. Once, the first time to be exact, was about a month ago. I was in the house. Not the one I grew up in, the other one, the one that was two stories tall, three if you count the basement. My room was on the top floor and from my window, I could see the main driveway. I could see anyone approaching. Only, He didn't approach from the front of the house, that would be too easy. Besides, what need would He have to be outside, what need would He have to use a door? None at all. He lives in the wall, just there behind the picture hanging up, right next to the bathroom. As I went to open the door, a gust forced it open just as I began to twist the knob. I felt the wind rushing past me in a great force. But that wasn't all. 

He was standing inside, the goat-man, not the satyr, the goat-man, for He was just like a man, only He was covered in brown fur, but He wasn't soft, He looked mangy, His fur sparse and unkept, and I could see the leathery animal-like black skin underneath. And He had a long face and wicked eyes and long ears and horns atop His head. He looked at me and before I could run, before the thought to do such a thing could even form in my head, He lunged at me, touching my shoulders with His hands (or were they hooves?). He pushed me back, roughly, so that I tripped over the desk that was there, and then He continued to push me, looking at me with His sinister eyes. As someone else entered the room, He was gone. And I knew his name. Michael. He had told me his name. Why, I am unsure. I don't even know why He had a name, none of the others ever had a name, at least not that They'd ever disclosed to me. But one thing was for sure. He was one of Them. And he had touched me. Until then, I had never been touched before, not by one of Them.

The second time was just the other night. Tuesday night I think. I was back in my childhood bedroom. It looked exactly as it once had, exactly how I remembered it used to be. And as I held my little dog, the one who has since passed, I had the blankets pulled over us both, one of us at least sound asleep. And I felt It walk across me. Quickly, with light steps. I wondered for a fleeting moment if it was her, if it was the dog, but I quickly realized she was still asleep at my side. And quickly, too, I realized that her feet were much too small, smaller than the feet I felt walk across me. And as I lied there, I felt It again. It terrified me, as I lied there, my eyes clenched shut, one hand holding onto my dog, the other holding the blankets over me with everything I had, as if I were safe, as if the blankets could protect me the way I believed they could when I was a child.

It was gone for the moment, but It came back, and It walked across me again. And then again. I felt It's hurried footsteps, like It was taunting me, like It was waiting for me to lift the blankets, that I could see It and It could gaze upon me. But I didn't look. I reached out, my hand still covered by the blanket, and grabbed It, determined to stop It, whatever It was. It tugged and pulled to get away from me, but I was stronger and It weak, It's body nearly as light as Its footsteps. When I lifted the blankets, It was gone. I never saw It. I don't know what It was. But I felt It.

Twice. Twice I have felt Them. Twice I felt so scared, so violated. I always got away. Always. I was always ahead of Them, just a little bit. But now They have caught up to me. I don't know why my dreams changed. I don't want to dream anymore. I want Them to leave me alone, whatever They are.