I think, therefore I am. I think too much, therefore I am not. I am not, therefore I am nothing. I am nothing, therefore I am dead. And if I am dead, then why am I still so goddamn lonely?
When you are alone with yourself all the time, with no one but yourself, you begin to go deeper and deeper into yourself until you lose yourself. It’s a perverse contradiction. It’s like your ego begins to disintegrate until you have no ego. Not in the sense that you become humble or gain some kind of perspective, but that you literally lose your sense of self.
I don’t truly know what I did or didn’t do. I can say I am a convicted murderer, which is true. I am convicted. And I can say that I killed her, too… Hanna… which I have said more than once. And I can even imagine that I killed her, which I have imagined, because that’s what I’ve been asked to do multiple times. But I honestly can’t say that I did, in fact, kill her. Because I just don’t remember, for the life of me.
Finding peace in the not knowing seems strangely more righteous than the peace that comes from knowing.
As I lay in bed last night, I thought about how many people have tried to help me along the way, have helped me, a few of who are no longer alive. Way more people have tried to help me, Jon, than have harmed me. The harm just seems to leave the deeper mark. Anyway, I’ve always felt such guilt that others were wasting their lives on me, that I was a waste, that I was unworthy. But last night, I didn’t feel that guilt, or that I was a waste. I didn’t necessarily feel worthiness, but I did feel a kind of responsibility, I guess. At least a desire to try and not let you all down. And then I felt the smallest flicker of not wanting to let myself down, you know? Because somewhere in all this, I’ve managed at times to fight for myself for some reason, to fight for my life for some reason. And I survived for some reason. And here I am, still, for some reason. And me not knowing that reason doesn’t diminish it or invalidate it or disprove its existence.