Quasi

Part of me still doesn't believe you're dead.
You moved to California and you didn't say goodbye.
That's all.
You're still out there somewhere living your life.
Doing what you want.

You had some kind of plan.
Some idea of a tomorrow that could have been.
Life was going to be long enough.
Shit that will never happen now.
Not in this timeline.

Of course I listen to Quasi now.
When I can't talk to you about it anymore.

God fucking damnit I miss you W.

We still might have met up.
It seemed like I was so close to seeing you.
How long had it been - six months?
When we ran into each other getting new glasses.
Texting on and off.
Figuring I would run into you again eventually.

The stories that could be told about you - you added a special spark to situations. Full of antics and factoids and jokes and ironic neuroses. You let a lot of things just be okay. Your friends loved you even when you fucked them over from time-to-time. You were that kind of person.

You make me feel better about being my weird self.
You make me want to listen to experimental music.
You make me want to be spontaneous and playful.
You make me want to live and love without regrets.

I will always be sad that you're gone.
I don't know how long it's going to take to "move on".
I don't really care.
If someone has a problem with me wishing you were still alive, they can suck it.

With that said, I know I have a lot of sadness already.
And I hold the bad memories like stones on my back.
Holding me back from being happy.
A misery.
Like how I was when I was with you. And M. And everyone else.

But as heavy as they are, I feel guilty if I let them go completely.
I feel like I'll lose some part of myself. That I already have.

Ignoring. Burying. Forgetting.

As if these things never happened.
As if these people didn't exist.
As if this life was never lived.

The same thing that kept me from being free with you
is what's keeping you alive and with me.

Is that morbid?

But you are worth remembering.

You were here for me when everyone else cut me out.

You never said goodbye.
And I never want to.

If anyone is ever going to love me, they'll just have to love you, and everyone else I carry around inside my memories, whether they realize it or not.

Giving new meaning to the living dead, I guess.
It kind of makes sense -

You helped make me,
so now I have to keep that part of you alive,
I want to keep that part of you alive,
or else part of me dies, too.

You think there's always tomorrow.

Always works out in the end.
But that's not always what happens.
Not to everybody.

My life here has become a nightmare.

Besides everything with W,

I've almost gotten evicted.

I've had my job and housing threatened.

I've found myself between two friends who are fighting.

I've spent a lot of time with people who don't really care about me, or care just enough, or who must think it's fun to fuck with me. Nothing more. 

Everyday

somebody calls me a bitch, or a cunt, or some other derogatory thing

for not selling them alcohol

for doing my job

and then I'm told hours might be cut, they might sell the store.

I'm not building a future here. 

I'm still just barely surviving.
Again.

I feel like I'm failing in every aspect.
Again.

I'm constantly on edge.
Again.

I'm surrounded by memories, little flashes, that both haunt me and comfort me with their familiarity.
I need them to know myself as much as I need to let them go in order to free myself.
I hope this is useful to have put into words for someone out there.
Maybe you've experienced the same thing, too, miles and miles away?

A lot of people outside of Portland have heard about the terrorist who slit those three men's throats, killing two, after they stood up for the Muslim women he was harassing on the Max.
At the Hollywood stop.

The stop I used everyday, twice a day, while I worked at the smoke shop.

This wasn't some part of the line I'd never been to before. 

Some part of the city I'd only seen once or twice.

I kissed people at that stop. One of them was W.

I met up with friends. I had good days and bad.

You can feel inspired that three people put their lives on the line to stand up for someone else, or you can feel horrified that there are people willing to kill you, to kill out of ignorant hatred, but both exist here.

On a personal note, last week I was in Subway and a barefoot, shirtless white man smashed in the window (apparently with the knife he dropped). The clerk got the plate numbers from his tan van as he drove away. We called the cops, but I'll probably never find out exactly why the fuck he did that. The clerk and I were the only ones in the shop and neither of us knew the guy.

There was also the woman stabbed at the Lloyd Center Max, and the DJ from CC Slaughter's who was murdered with a knife, both in random acts of violence by people they didn't know.

Not to mention the fights that have broken out just on my street alone, and a shooting.

This just within the last few weeks.

Other friends report an uptick of violence in their areas of the city as well.

I know someone from L.A. who says Portland is growing. This is normal for him. Light, even.

I have a hard time paying rent. I have a hard time maintaining healthy relationships. I have a hard time with self-control. I have a hard time at work. I have a hard time cleaning and running errands and doing simple things that people tend to judge you harshly about. I have a hard time with the noise and the crime and the potential for disaster. I have a hard time with memories and triggers and pretending I'm okay when I'm not.

I need to learn to accept the risks of being alive.

Of living a life worth remembering.

Here or anywhere else.
Otherwise, what's the point?
This shit is horrible.