Dear friend,
It has been a while since I last wrote to you, and although we haven't had classes since Tuesday, I wasn't able to feel anything of import to push me to write. But now I have, so I hope you're in the mood to listen.
I finished reading "Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky last night, and since then my mind has been in blog mode. That means that my thoughts flow like I am writing something in here. That book affected me in many ways, and until now, I'm still feeling the aftermath of that... feeling. I would have written here last night, but I deliberately did not reload my internet credit. Some days, I just want to stay away from the internet. Anyway, I can't properly describe what it is that I felt after reading that book. It's not a pleasant feeling, nor is it too dreadful. It just... It just made me feel different. And it has been a while since I felt like that after reading a book. The last was probably Harry Potter. And that had been years ago.
First of all, I was struck by the similarities between me and the protagonist in the book, Charlie. We write in a similar style. Casual. Conversational. I know he is a fictional character, but I'm betting that there are parts of Charlie which the author drew from himself. I cannot be labeled as an author, not when I haven't published anything yet, not even a scientific journal, but I do want to be one, so I try to think like one sometimes. And I figured that it is difficult to write about something you have not experienced yourself. If I were to attempt that, I'm afraid that the reader will not be convinced it was authentic. And of course, when you write something, even a fictional book, there must be some credibility to how the characters act in it. So that was why I said that maybe the author drew some of the events there from his own experiences.
I wonder if I will be able to write my own book someday. And if I were, I wonder what it will be about. I'll most probably write about stories. My stories. That makes me ashamed somewhat. Because it may seem self-indulgent, writing to feed one's vanity. But maybe if I use a pseudonym, it will be okay. Most books are just stories anyway, and does it really matter if mine really happened? And besides, the point of writing the book is to share the story because others might get something from it. I do not need them to associate it with the real me. The stories should be taken as they are.
I'm glad I recorded most of the past six years of my life here in this blog. Somehow, I feel that I've been writing all these entries for the book I'm going to write in the future. That I'm writing the book, one fragment at a time. I've actually considered printing all my good entries here and compile them in one book. For my personal use. Just for me to see how much I've changed since. Or maybe for my close friends, if they care enough to read it.
I feel envious of Charlie. It was as if he was living the life I would have loved to live myself. All the excitement. The drugs, especially. The relationships. The erratic flow of his thoughts. His family, even, especially having siblings. His friends, also. I wish I had all of those too.
To be fair, maybe I have had my own share of excitement in my life. It is only now that my life seems devoid of them because I'm living in very different circumstances. Most of my friends have gone away in a very short span of time. I'm working in a new environment, where I am not allowed to be who I really am. And most of all, I'm getting older. And to quote Keane, "I don't feel the same."
I wish I were Charlie, dementia and all. Traumatic past and all. And since I can't just suddenly transform my life and be exactly like Charlie, I suppose the next best thing for me is to wish he was real. If Charlie were real and he was my friend, I think we'd be best friends.
Oh, the mixed tapes we will make! The books we're going to read! All the movies we are going to watch together. How we'll have our yosi breaks together, how we'll get wasted together, and maybe try some illegal drugs together. Oh, how we'll stumble and laugh and run and feel infinite together. I might fall in love with him actually (I already did) but since he is straight, I'd settle for us being best friends. I'd learn to get around my feelings for him. Somehow.
If he were real, I can see myself as the one who will always be there whenever he is panicky or when he's crying irrationally. I will be the one who will stay with him in the hospital. I see myself as the one who will be strong when he is afraid. The one who will listen to his woes about Mary Elizabeth and Sam. I will be that person. I will be his best friend.
Sigh. I suppose I can see more clearly now what I feel after reading the book. I feel sad. Because Charlie is just a character in a book. And he isn't real. And I want to be his friend. Badly.
It's stupid, I know. Having emotions like this for a character. But I suppose it brought up issues in me which I have forgotten. Like having a brother and a sister. Having a strong-willed father. Getting straight-A's in school. Having fun. Having friends. Feeling special.
I envied Charlie the most in that last scene when he was at the hospital. How he was being taken care of by everyone. How they made him feel special. How everyone was trying to assure him that he will be okay. How everyone was telling him that they love him.
Again, to be fair, it isn't like the people around me had never made me feel special. I've lost count of how many times I've been given cards and gifts and special messages, not to mention my last semender party (which, shaming as it is to admit, kinda turned out to be a self-made tribute for myself). My friends do miss me every now and then, and they tell me so, and so I wonder why the fuck am I still asking for more? Why are all these things not enough for me?
Oh.
I know the answer now.
It's because I don't believe them. Not that I doubt whether their feelings are genuine or not. Not that. I just don't feel I am worthy. I do not believe I am anything special. How does one know, really? And why does it matter that we should feel special?
I wish Charlie was here. He'd probably know the answer.
I must sleep now, friend. I got more questions than answers after writing this and I'll figure them out someday and I'll tell you. I hope you are well. I will try to be well. Believe that I am well and I will be well.
Love always,
Bry
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