By Solitude
Tonight will start with a story from a number (the number escapes me) of days ago...
I had counted four butterfly sightings that day. I always count them, be it out of genuine interest or habit. I think it's a habit. I haven't seen the type with beautiful, blue-ish wings since... October? November? I might as well count it as October 23rd. I've memorized the date. Just as I memorized February 6th, I suppose. They're meaningless to anyone but me. October 23rd is a cruel day. 10.23, almost 1 - 2 - 3! Yet it's not. That shows its corruption.
Worse: A realization has washed over me. 2 + 3 = 5. It's essentially 105. One of my favorite numbers. That day and its memories find more, horribly cruel ways to torment my thoughts, doesn't it? Every time I think it's over, it's like I'm possessed by a new melancholia surrounding the day. To some, night. I don't blame the calendar, only myself for creating such an abstract fear. I should've known the moment I had said "This Autumn will be different" that it wouldn't be.
Oh, well. None of that has anything to do with the subject of this entry but I suppose now it has made its bed here. I'll humanize it from now on. That day is a wood sprite, knocking upon wood as a blessing - yes, yes, yes. It was simply a blessing in disguise. That's what I tell myself, but it doesn't change the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, does it?
There I go again! Let me continue with my actual story now, won't you, heart? So... I had counted four butterflies. Two cockroaches. One worm lifted off by a bird. One spider. The spider was a sad case: I've been trying to kill the poor souls less after an incident from... 2 months ago? (Time will always escape me) that I believe gave me deep, deep bad karma and I will pay for it by the end of this year. Then my therapist informed me that thought is full of delusion and superstition, that I have nothing to fear, especially not the revenger of spiders. I don't quite believe her but in the moment I agreed. Anyway... The spider. It was a little thing, but it could jump! I definitely didn't want it to jump on me, so I enlisted my papa (Step-Dad) to help me. Got a cup and paper and he tried catching it with such.
The thing somehow ended up with half of itself under the paper and half in the cup. Split in two. I have no empathy, so I felt nothing, but I prayed over the pitiful sight. And prayed it wouldn't seek vengeance against my papa.
So what does this have to do with solitude? Absolutely nothing. I just thought of it while sitting alone, watching my cat chew upon a cockroach that he had tortured.
I have continuous dreams of talking to ... what to call this presence? Let's say MNEOML. Mneoml. Sure. Anyway, I have dreams of talking to [redacted]. Mostly apologetic, sad things. Extremely vivid, every day I wake up with a start and a need to make sure it did(n't) happen. I can't tell which outcome I would prefer. Often times, Mneoml is yelling at me or attacking me through words in some way. I always take it as best I can, apologize, and [redacted] calms and says it just needed to be said, but ultimately Mneoml forgives me. Sometimes it's better: Experiences where we're actually friends, where we partake in new happy memories. I usually wake up in the middle of the night after though those dreams, sweating as though I ran a marathon and cold like I don't sleep with three blankets on me.
I think it's important to note that Mneoml is an amalgamation of identities. [Redacted] is just a personification of my sorrow and grief, I think. I hope one day Mneoml will stop haunting me, like Delial with Navidson. Until then, I repent in solitude.