I think you’re right.
It’s fine. It’s going to be alright.
[I don’t assume you know.]
[This entire thing is a massive, gaping hole.]
[I was like you, thinking there would be a simple solution to it.]
[But there isn’t.]
[It’s a fucking massive, convoluted band of theories, stories, ideas, strung together into the conglomerate I’m right in the middle of, trying to make sense of and prepare for you, the reader.]
[Do you really understand how challenging it is to fix the past?]
[You know, come to think of it, I don’t really know why I took up the offering to do this. I guess a part of me felt responsible, like this person I never knew, had a project he could never finish. I wanted to carry on the dreams of a dead man.]
[And you might think to yourself, well, what does it matter? He’s dead now. You never knew him. Nobody did.]
[And to that I say I agree. This whole thing is pointless. Nothing like it has ever happened. It could be complete bullshit for all I know. Hell, it probably is.]
[But once you actually pick up the journal, laying down there on the ground of a dead forest, covered by thickets and leaves, grass smeared into its pages, and that journal details every single dream, every single ambition, every thought and memory laid down by a person’s heart, and to see it being crushed as his very fabric is torn apart by his own insanity, it just…tears at me.]
[You see, I have my own story to tell. It was late at night, I was sitting at my computer, doing whatever the hell I used to do on nights like that, when the phone rang. It was a worker at a hospital, saying that my mother had been hit by a car.]
[And the panic. The sheer panic as I drove as fast I could to see her, see what the fuck was going on. It beat and tore me. When I arrived, they told me that it would be a miracle for her to live much longer.]
[But that wasn’t the end.]
[Six months later. I still wasn’t over it. You never really get over the loss of a loved one. My fiance and I were preparing to pack up our things for the big project of moving into the house my mother lived in, as she gave the will of it to me. As I was sorting through the house, I found inside of an old chestnut drawer a diary.]
[Now, obviously, a small diary can’t hold an entire person’s story, so what I found interesting about it was that the actual entries themselves were sparse in between. The first one was when she was 12. There were some others from her teens, into her twenties, thirties, so on, until towards her death.]
[There’s simply something amazing about the written form of someone’s life that’s fascinating. It holds every little detail and nuance about someone. And finding that diary was utterly breathtaking, because it told so much about someone I thought I knew everything about.]
[So when I found that abandoned journal, it awoke that sentimental fragment dug deep within me. I couldn’t do anything about my mother, because I didn’t know what to do.]
[But I know what to do now.]
[In fact, I’m doing it this moment.]
[There’s a purpose. There’s a reason.]
[There’s a reason you’re here. Right now, sitting down, looking at your monitor.
What is it?]