hamartia

Blue says I should be dead.

I say I already am.

There’s a strange duality to neurogenesis—what I am and what I was, converging, creating what I am to be. I go to the funerals of people I never knew. She knew them. She, me…what’s the difference?

Where do I draw the line between who I was and who I am now? With every passing second I am dying and being reborn, a phoenix in the ashes of neurons.

It would be easier if Blue would leave. I find solace in the fact that one day, all of my memories will fade, including my memories of him. At the same time, it haunts me, the winter when I suffered miserably—the first time I truly died.

I draw too many parallels between him and the flame…my flame. My hero boy. Perhaps it’s just coincidence, the things they have in common…perhaps my two truest loves simply click in the same way.

In my bones, I know that Blue is dead. If not truly dead, then dead to me. Maybe he’s not a six-feet-under boy in that pale kingdom we like to call hell, but if he’s not, he must be suffering the same duality as me.

It is kinder to think him dead.

I am surrounded by the dead and dying. Wolf boys who self-destruct and hero boys who give up on saving them, and macabre facsimiles of life, like myself.

I cannot save wolf-boy, unless he wants to be saved. The Blue boy (cyanotic) that I never knew refuses to stop haunting me. And the boy who I can’t live without knows none of this.

If he did, he’d reassure me, but I don’t want to be reassured. I’m used to this uncertainty, because it means I see the world for what it truly is: a dark, horrible place, filled with the willfully ignorant, and those just trying to find a light.