Part III.1 (the second part of this will be added during the week)
Sometimes I feel like I’m desperately trying to hold on to the information I have. If I’m not constantly exposing myself to it repetitiously, I will lose ahold of everything that I know. If I don’t constantly think about the dead, they will be lost. What is anything if we don’t remember it?
This is where I spend most of my days.
Because of all my social anxiety I was forced to build myself a library of my own, and this is where I keep my collection of books. Why is it that we can watch the same movie, read the same book, again and again, and that somehow satisfies something in our brains. The repetition. So, I’m sitting in here, smoking a cigarette, in this room full of books, because I tried to quit once, three years earlier, but that was over once the stress came, a year ago, after my twenty-ninth birthday. Lately I’ve been constantly judging myself. It’s a whisper in the back of my brain, rippling through the forefront.
There’s a knock at my door, and I know it’s Bizz, because lately she’s the only person I still talk to. Mostly, because she’s aware of all my social phobias. It helps. Sometimes the time travelers stop by with their weird cryptic messages, but it’s difficult to get excited to see people that always bring troubles with them.
When Bizz comes in she’s carrying in some of Deschutes’ Twilight Summer Ale, and I’m thankful because I was getting thirsty waiting for her to get here.
“The Mountain Goats are playing here next week,” she tells me, as she opens two beers and I meet her in the kitchen. “You know how I feel about being around groups of people,” I reply, because she does this all the time, tries to lure me into social awkwardness with my favorite musicians as bait. Last month it was Jason Webley. The most difficult one was Neutral Milk Hotel, because I really really wanted to go to that show. But, the panic had me, and once it strikes there’s no turning it around. After these shows pass, I look them up on YouTube, my internal dialogue finding reasons to be grateful that I didn’t go, such as considering how packed a show is and being relived that I didn’t have to deal with strangers brushing up against me.
Have I mentioned I used to be an atheist? Before everything, that is. Before the time travelers, and the reoccurring people. Before them, I didn’t believe in a goddamn thing. It’s funny how life reveals it’s truths to you. The way the shadows are revealing themselves behind Bizz, sprouting from her one true shadow and darkening the room. The dizziness comes with them, like the alcohol spins mixed with too much Vicodin. And I’m nauseous in the gloom, as I fold in on myself.
I have these “black outs” often. At least I have lately. My head swimming with more information than it is capable of processing.