(Read: Immature)

I’m still trying to figure out what was me, and what was him.

What was ours, or might have been.

What was separate, true or false.

A relationship that feels like a draw, not a win or a loss.

I could have done better, and you could have too,

My last words to him were “I love you.” I gazed on his loving face; it was always loving, but there were so many periods where I forgot that. That in itself isn’t a crime as I’m sure my friends and family had similar periods. But I’ll never get to reconcile those times. We were never truly close, and now we never would be. I had seems glimpses of his true depth, the man that shaped so much of my identity, but never delved into it.

I can remember standing over him, barely able to move. I didn’t want to start to speak; the sooner I started, the sooner I knew I would finish talking to him for the last time. My cheeks twitched as tears rolled down them, racing through memories that brought on subconscious smiles and grief. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw him drive or the last time he’d cooked. I touched his arm, feeling mostly fabric and bone; his arm reminded me more of my own than of the man I grew up knowing.

Tear after tear came, and my nose ran desperately from the cold that had stuck with me for weeks. I don’t think my body wanted me to recover, as if to remain in some sort of solidarity. My appetite was similar, and day after day as I watched my father turn away meal after meal, I felt sympathy pains causing me to do the same.

The words I spoke came no more than two at a time, maybe three between breathes. My voice wavered to the point I wasn’t sure he would be able to understand me. My brother had been with him moments before and had told me he was still awake. Looking at him now, I wasn’t sure. His blanket was largely thrown off him; I wasn’t sure why. He might have been too warm. In the back of my head, I recalled my mom telling me that recently he would sometimes toss and turn during the night, trying to kick off his blankets amid quiet claims of “I have to go.” I think he knew.

As I slowly said what came to mind, my words seemed to evoke a small reaction; slow, gentle nodding and perhaps even a muted moan. I’m still not sure if this was conscious, or merely my words sinking into his last dreams, and him trying to communicate his agreement. His eyes never opened. I kissed his forehead, looking on him with such fear and indecision that I couldn’t comprehend what to do next.

The rest of my family were all downstairs, some quiet, some eating, some drinking. I knew that as a teenager, I never would have wanted to allow them to see me this way, face reddened and broken. I didn’t understand why I kept such a distance between us. Did I feel like they wouldn’t relate? That they would judge me? Or that my problems were my own burden to work through? Either way, I knew I didn’t care anymore. I felt so guilty that I ever did with my father, and that guilt consumed me. I never discussed sex, or love, or my hopes and dreams with him. And I never asked him about his.

I knew that if I remained much longer, I wouldn’t be able to return to the others; the muscles in my face were pained now from grimacing. I leaned over him again, bending lower to feel his cheek against mine, and I kissed him.  I lingered a moment there on his cheek and just I was about to pull away, he kissed me back, his head tilting ever so slightly, lips lightly but unmistakably pressing against me.

That was the last time I saw my father. I asked my mom if I should stay the night; she said she didn’t know, but that it was really my choice. I was so drained, all I wanted was my own bed; we went home. I received the call from my mom while I was still asleep, but I knew before picking up.

After I had said goodbye and ended the call, Katie turned over and waited for me to speak.

“He died, Katie.”

“…what?” she asked, as though it wasn’t possible, a mistaken mix of her dream and reality.

“He died, sweetie. It’s ok, let’s just go back to sleep.”

Very few people know what they want to be in life. Some are told, some are forced, some are lucky enough to choose.

Happiness isn’t a choice. Expecting to be happy is unrealistic. Even if I do manage to achieve it for a period, Life will constantly laugh at me for it, and attempt to push me off my newly-acquired throne.

I’m not going to figure life out. No one ever has, and no one ever will, and I’m no different.

Should happiness be our expectation? Should it be our goal? Or is it futile, like the words written above so paint it to be.

Our expectation should be to be true to ourselves; our passions, our hopes, our responsibilities, our realities. The obligation of life shouldn’t be understood as an obstacle but an opportunity to learn about ourselves. New conditions force us to adapt, and we discover what we can do, what we can be.

No, I’m not going to figure things out. And if I ever think I have, that’s just a sign that life already claimed me as another one of its suckers.

Our true hope is to embrace ourselves in our entirety. Because without doing so, how you can expect to do the same with others? A world of facades, a world of walls, a world of saving face; that’s not for me.

Mark Twain once wrote: “Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination.” Despite our society’s attitudes and (ironic) anxiety about mental illness, I believe these words to be true. A person’s sanity makes little sense to another, much like, as it so often the case, a person’s happiness makes little sense to another.

Do I want to be happy? Yes. Do I ever expect to be? No.

Do I want to feel fulfilled? Yes. Do I ever expect to be? I wouldn't still be alive if I didn’t.

Just as we've been shamed our whole lives for masturbating physically, we’ve been shamed for masturbating mentally. Not for sexual gratification or motivations, but for exploration and growth.

I don’t expect everyone to understand this process; I don’t believe I do either. But I believe in its importance, because without it, I’m not sure how to continue life. They say we only use 10% of our brains, but I’m convinced that it’s our minds that we truly underutilize. The capacity we have for emotion, for adaptation, for transformation. We change so quickly, and yet we’re often so convinced that we’re the ones that changed the right way. Without exposure to the full spectrum of ourselves and human experience, I fear we lack the ability to understand ourselves and, consequentially, to understand others.

I consider wet willies to be the prankster's version of waterboarding;

Fires spring up around us,

and you run around trying to put them all out, 

with a bucket of water, as though it could save us.

And I just watch you, 

rolling my eyes, motionless and removed,

as if wondering, "What, are you hot?"

I walk quickly out of habit, not because I have anywhere I need to be.

The street bustles around me; somehow the bus feels like protection, and I begin to get anxious about getting off at the next stop.

Next song. Next. Next. Next. A mixture of album filler and pirated-quality mp3s pollute my iPod’s shuffles.

I see my stop come and go and try to calculate whether it’s enough of an excuse to just go back home. My phone vibrates a reminderabout the missed call from my mom that I ignored last night because I was high.

Tissue boxes everywhere,

Drawers unseen,

Esoteric whiteboard scribblings,

Clutching at shirts with no owner,