This Calling

I’m awake at 2:30 in the morning because I got a call from England. There are some changes coming. Good changes. No, I’m not moving overseas. Or moving back. No, I didn’t box up my harasser and send her to a place where they’d kick her ass for insulting their culture. But the change is good. Very good. Insanely good. Makes-me-feel-like-some-resolutions-are-happening-good. And that is good in itself. Does that make sense?

For the last few months, I have been looking at things online that I probably shouldn’t have. Not porn, or illegal things, but bad things, in general. Someone who knew someone dear to me decided to take a kick at them, and they’ve posted some horrible things about them online. None of it is true, but the victim can’t defend themselves; he died in 2008, over two years ago. The first person I failed is being failed again. By me. By the ones he loved so dearly that he let into his close-knit mind, heart and soul. I read those cruel words, and I cry. I sit there and wonder how people can claim to be “good people” when making fun of someone who died of cancer. Someone who was bloated from steroids given to keep them alive. Someone who defiled all odds and lived for two years longer than they were expected. Someone who had love in their heart and a soul in their body, someone who didn’t deserve to be made fun of later on.

I read these words and I don’t know what to do. I feel as though I am failing all over again because I can’t stop what is going on. I have bad dreams over this. I sleep but I don’t dream most nights, but when I do, they are nightmares. I dream of angry ghosts, the same angry ghosts that scratch at my bedroom door late at night, tear down my sun catcher in the middle of the night, and worst of all, refuse to let me be. One can’t simply run from these kinds of ghosts. They can follow you. They can find you. Or you bring them with you. They become a part of you. A bad part. Then, to make matters worse, I listen to the playlists we created. Songs we loved when our souls were together. Playlists that make me cry, that make me wonder why I am putting myself through this. There is no need.

When I go see the Grimaldo twins later on, I will stop by the wall of graduates, just to get a picture of one of the names of someone I loved, forever engraved in gold on the walls of the school. Students whose names are in gold are the ones who didn’t live to graduate. I was comforted by Professor Buchanan last year that every class has someone who dies. Though it’s selfish, I often asked why me??. Couldn’t someone else’s best friend die? Couldn’t they be the one alone forever?

Such strange thoughts in the middle of the night.

My eyes are starting to blur and my brain is turning to mush and tell my fingers to become Jell-O, so I think it’s time to get back to my warm bed. Peering out the window, I don’t see any stars, but I know they will shine again. The clouds will travel far away and the stars will light the night once again.

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