Zombie thoughts

There is a stigma behind zombies. They are supposedly these creatures with a hunger for human organs that cannot be sated. Zombies are the poster face of horror films, the topic of books, and the fear in the hearts of the paranoid. Worrying about our impending doom is normal, but specifically what is it about zombies that bothers us more than any other animal that would willingly eat a human? Is it that zombies are considered one of us? What makes them us? What makes us, us?

Maybe zombies scare us because when we look at them, we’re capable of seeing ourselves. We can see a future involving death that we did not consider. We all know we are going to die, but we don’t believe it. But the moment we look at this creature that represents both life and death, it becomes very real. To me, that is why zombies are so terrifying. They may be fictional, but they force us to face reality.

Before the bliss of falling into the unconscious state of sleep, I feel anything but bliss. When I close my eyes and see the void of darkness, it becomes a canvas for my thoughts. I become me within myself, analyzing any thought with great detail. 

I become aimless in my thoughts, as I am in life. The busyness of the day dulls it. Is that why I’m busy to begin with? I am unable to think about myself in depth when I’m busy. I fill my schedule in a desperate attempt to detach myself from self reflection. I always fail, because at the end of the day when I’m waiting to drift off into dreamland, I’m overloaded with thoughts. 

Maybe that’s why I sleep so well on the days I’m not busy. I have an entire day to mull over my thoughts, and I’m unable to avoid them. By the time I get to bed, I’ve already exhausted all of my thinking options. 

Journal Update 10/1/15 11:40 PM

I have realized that happiness only happens when I want it to. Happiness can be so fickle. I always strive to be happy, but I never really understood fully what happiness meant to me. Happiness can be short lived, or it can extend on for days. Regardless of the form of happiness I have, it is all the same. I am happier more than I realize I am. I take advantage of my happiness. I get so caught up in the idea of living a happy life, I forget to actually live it.

Solitude

In my best moments I am hardwired to humor. I dislike solemnity and disdain from others when they portray raw emotions.

I have clinical depression. I often forget it exists. Which ironically, the worst part. It is in my strongest moments of normalcy that I lose myself. Depression is patient. It will wait. When I have finally found my internal peace, when I have regained my humanity and dignity, I lose it.

Writing is an amenity to me. When I have an audience, I take them along in a journey. I feel so delighted to have readers. It is one of the only moments that I feel truly connected to others.

Solitude is terrifying. I have an unsated thirst for human connection. The only way I can connect is through writing. Others make it look so simple to have someone. They have someone to make stories with, stories that I end up reading alone. They’re so free and happy, I’m so guarded and hesitant. It is no doubt that it is my own fault that I do not have that luxury. I cannot help but blame others. It is a process for me to feel any emotion connection to someone, and far more difficult for them to feel the same with me. Sometimes I’m afraid the only feeling I will is the biting pain of loneliness.

Personalized Crime

Robbing me of my medication is much more than taking a few pills from me to get high. It isn’t that literal. It becomes a much deeper act than just robbery. When someone walks away with my pills, they are walking away with the one part of me that makes my brain function. I am being robbed of my happiness. What high is to someone is achieving normalcy for me. I never knew normalcy was something to strive for until I lost it.

Robbing my pills is such a personal crime to me. Robbing is shitty no matter what, but robbing pills is entirely different. Robbing material things is nothing compared to robbing something that allows a person to function. Those pills keep me from convulsing on the floor. Those pills keep me from sitting on the couch all day, terrified to move. Those pills give me a life. Robbing pills is the equivalent of robbing a disabled person of their wheelchair.

Do not take that away from me.

Sleep

When I was young, I never liked sleep.

To me, sleep was a waste of time.

But, I was wrong.

Without sleep, we would not have night.

Nighttime would just be day wearing a new face.

If sleep never existed, neither would solitude.

Sleep is a simple fix.

I slept when I didn’t feel well.

I slept when I felt sad.

Sleep is comforting, sleep is temporary.

The only difference between death and sleep is the time span.

If sleep isn’t terrifying, why is death?

The permanence of death is what is terrifying.

We never will truly commit to anything until we commit to death.

We are so afraid of the unknown we disregard the peaceful nature that comes with death.

The moment we embrace death and accept it for what it is, we can truly embrace life.

Mourning

It was in the earliest moments of dawn, before the birds sang, and before the sun peaked over the horizon, that I felt at home. It was in the fleeting seconds I roused from slumber, hardly conscious, that I felt comfort. I found tranquility in the morning while the world slept. There came a fragment of time where the sun hit my window just right, and it appeared golden in my room. But Robert Frost was right, nothing gold can stay. The reflection soon after dissipated. The day carried on. Humanity awakened, and the world was no longer mine. The gleam of the sun faded into dusk, and the one place I called home became cold and empty.

Journal update 2:20 AM 7/10/15

The sound of day is not the sound of day, it is the sound of humans. Other thoughts float freely in the atmosphere, and I can’t find my own. Holed up in my own corner of the world, I find it hard to breathe. No matter where I am, I am crowded. That is, until dusk. Night has its own tune that is not human. The bustling hushes. The world ceases. The sun fades and so does my facade. Even the stars that hide come out to shine. I am limitless. Listen to some tunes with me.

Journal Update 7/6/15 1:23 A.M

I recently came in touch with my childhood best friend. It is like reuniting with a part of myself I never knew I was missing.

We were juvenile delinquents of suburbia. We saw a glimpse into our bright futures the day we ran from the cops as fifth graders. Ah, the old “hitting the cops windshield with a snowball” tragedy.

The one true moment I felt fearless was when I had my counterpart at my side. We were inseparable, we were an unstoppable force.

Our childhood was flawless and full of pure joy, growing up in the wobbling transition between outdoors and technology. We found our balance. We found each other, one day as she was selling lemonade on the side of the road. We were destine for greatness, and all it took for us to be great was to be happy, which we found happiness in each other’s company.

They say there are five forms of erosion, water, wind, glacier, sea, and soil. But I found a sixth, and the sixth is time. Time eroded my friendship with my best friend. We grew up and moved on.

In one light it’s depressing how time eroded our friendship, but in another light, it’s beautiful. See, erosion doesn’t mean something disappears. Erosion doesn’t mean something is gone. Erosion is the gradual destruction of something, but what comes from the destruction is nothing less of astounding. Just look at the grand canyon.

Sure, our friendship eroded. It started out beautiful, but not it is authentic. We have aged and became something of our own, forever bound to each other regardless of the physical changes. We found our comfortable silence.

The Reawakening

It was an odd thing to see a hand laden with a heavy plate gauntlet handle something so delicately. However, there she stood, gently twisting the stem of a tiny purple flower between her thumb and forefinger as though it were the single most precious thing she’d ever touched. ”Goodbye,” she murmured, and her chest clenched at the stirring that the simple word provoked. She seemed scarcely aware of the metallic sound of her own footsteps as they carried her back toward the great rise of Shattrath City; back toward the promise of clashing swords, and the scent of spilled blood.

There was no going back, never mind how strong the desire to return to those arms that had held her only moments before she’d turned to depart. To go back would mean to forfeit the promise of safety she had spoken only hours before. This was war. The sounds of battle raged on the city floor, bringing with it the cries of both friend and foe, and their falling. The knight was among many who found themselves fighting in the Lower City, battling back a band of orcs who fought with such an obvious blood lust that it was a wonder if they felt any pain themselves, or only the thrill that came with the spilling of more blood, regardless of who it belonged to. The last thing she remembered was the panic she felt upon feeling a heavy blow to the neck.

“Wake up, dear,” a voice said in a tone that was somehow impatient and encouraging simultaneously. The knight, her head reeling, slowly opened her eyes only to be greeted by the harsh and glaring light of mid-morning.

“There she is,” the voice said again, and the knight settled her eyes upon the smiling face of a priestess.

The priestess stood slightly less in height than did most of her race and lacked the defined musculature of those who may have been engaged in more rigorous physical training. Despite being slight of frame and delicate feature, there was nothing truly demure about the woman. Within the brilliant pair of eyes that gazed at the world around her resided a story thousands of years old. In spite of all that she’d seen, however, therein lied neither malice nor ill-intent, merely the wisdom of the ages. She hearkened to older times, where war was not frequent, and peace was an object to be cherished. Her visage, while generally appearing inquisitive and appeasing, remained unburdened by chronically knitted brow or scowl and maintained a youthful appearance, overall. Hair, only slightly darker in contrast to her skin, was fine and often tucked behind an ear to remove it from sight, where it oftentimes proved itself to be something of a burden. Horns grew amid the silken locks, sharp points kept pristine and untouched by battle or cruelty.

Lithe and willowy, her frame was bedecked in the modest robes so typical of her practice, and within the stitching; the colors of the Naaru were prominent and unmistakable. Hierarchy was unmarked by a glimmering scepter, which was a constant upon her person regardless of wardrobe. Posture was the diligence of practice, adding to an overall regal appearance and conduct brought with it a sense of propriety. A woman of composure, her voice was even and practiced in most times, and while it occasionally drifted dangerously close to sounding condescending, the pleasant smile upon her lips was useful in absolving one’s doubt.

While she may have been a force to be reckoned with in her own right, she was easily overpowered when things more than tea and sensible words were required for resolution. Fortunately, the orator was rarely alone, as the most loyal warrior could nearly always be seen nearby. Serel, whose reputation always preceded her, was the iron fist which insisted that no harm should come to the priestess – and what better person to serve as protector than one’s own wife? Rarely were they seen apart, and between the two of them, there seemed to be a mutual understanding of both intent and action. They moved as one, for the same purpose, of the same mind, bound by many millennia past, and a bond that transcended all else.

“We are here to help,” the stranger assured her, “and we’re moving many of the wounded out of the city, where it’s safer.”

Nearby to the priestess was a warrior, and it was quite clear by her stance and the way she carried herself that she had seen many battles in her time.

“I can’t leave,” the young knight protested, tone parched. “I have to fight.”

“Fight?” the priestess echoed. “You’re not going to be doing any of that. I’ve been healing you since Serel found you, barely alive, in a pile of slain bodies.” She gestured first to the gleaming warrior standing nearby, and then made a vague motion toward the Lower City. “My name is Amoya.”

Over the course of the several days that followed, the young knight was watched over by those who had been set in charge of the small refuge for the wounded. The warrior and priestess were a common sight among the wounded and dying who were situated about in the makeshift camp; however their duties often called them back to the city. Sometime during then, the knight slipped into the clutches of death, with a tiny purple flower tucked beneath the breastplate of her armor.

“You will rise.”

She was dead. She had been dead. The sound that vaguely registered within her mind could have only been the sound of the afterlife into which she must have finally been delivered.

“You will fight.”

How was it possible? Thought registered. Feeling – a pain and a hunger unlike anything she had ever felt. Was this the afterlife? Was it the Naaru who was speaking to her?

“You will be my champion.”

The voice would have been enough to cause a chill, had she been more inclined toward feeling. As if driven by instinct alone, and unable to control her own actions, she rose to look into the face of something she did not quite recognize, however she knew him. It felt as though the knowledge had simply been implanted into her mind – Arthas stood before her, impressive in all his state. She was to serve him, to become a pawn in the chess game he’d laid out within the Scarlet Enclave.

This wasn’t an afterlife, this was reanimation. She was merciless. A force to be reckoned with, she stood stalwart and stoic against those who sought to flee, and struck them down mercilessly without a thought to virtue, or righteousness, or remorse. His every command had become something for which she thirsted, and the satisfaction that came with bending to the insatiable desire only grew with each passing day.