Goddammit, Pudge

It’s far worse to be sad about a book than about your own life. You form a special kind of attachment to fictional people whose happiness, loss, and heartache mirror your own. It’s a different connection, but it’s hard to explain. And sometimes you’re better off feeling these things on your own than telling your friends. Because you won’t have a decent reason to tell them why you’re sad. It’s one thing to understand things and feel them. It’s another to be able to explain why.

Death is a bigger tragedy for those who are left behind, that I know in my heart is true. You wake up every day trying to decide between remembering and forgetting. And somehow you end up doing both. It’s funny how sometimes you want to be less sad, and when you finally feel a little better, you’ll feel guilty because it’s like you don’t care enough to be sad. I really don’t know how to deal with death. There are times when I think I have to spend time crying that it happened, as some sort of remembrance. Because when I can’t cry anymore, then maybe I’ve forgotten. And you’re not supposed to forget that someone died. Dying is a pretty big deal. It’s the final curtain call. You know what they say about performing—the first and last performances are always the most memorable. So people always celebrate birthdays and death anniversaries.

I think that’s bullshit, sort of. I’d rather celebrate something more substantial than remembering I was born. Like, you know, coming in first place for the first time in a short story writing competition. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been crazy about my own birthday. It’s nice that other people are, though.

I know I’m not making sense right now. But hey, sadness doesn’t always have to make sense. You just have to understand it. And when you do, even stream of consciousness will seem like fucking poetry. It will flow and it will pierce your very own consciousness and make you bleed and rip you apart.

I’m now a few pages away from finishing Looking for Alaska. I honestly have no idea how it will end. I haven’t decided whether I want to finish the book or not. My brother never finished Catch-22. He refuses to read the last few pages. I forgot the reason, but he was adamant back when he told me.

Maybe I should just reread the days before so I’ll feel better. Nothing really was the same after.

Goddammit, Pudge. You break my heart more than Alaska did.

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