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The Arsonist

I am Dilpreet.

I write.

I made robots once a year, for four years of high school, which immeasurably changed my life.

Lead Design and Build for
Team 1259, Paradigm Shift, 2013. I'm proud of what I did there.

I've been through... a lot. If you're looking for someone to speak with, I take pride in being a conversationalist.

Home Archive Ask Older Work FRC Network The Untitled

I’m an idiot.

why the fuck would I even think I was worth 13 minutes. I’m sick of being me.

something that hurts a lot

I don’t currently have a person I can consistently go to that has answers. I’ve got so many friends who I know can come to me, and do, and that makes me immeasurably happy, but I don’t know that I have one I can go to myself. 

I wrote something called “Letter to Dilpreet” about a year and a half ago, and in it were words that I needed to hear when I was at my lowest low. No one said those words to me, not then, not now. 

I’ve gotta be going about this wrong. Save a couple of people who I can’t talk to often because of the distance, my approaching someone with something on my mind has consistently yielded results that make me feel worse in the end rather than better. Be it because their response is not reassuring or that they have no response at all, I’m not getting anywhere. 

I’m just angry a lot, lately. 

untitled (placeholder)

I didn’t know comfort very well growing up. I used to cry as a kid because my parents were always downstairs, working. Back when I used to believe in God, I’d pray to Him, begging for some way to see my parents more. I remember. They never came up, not until the store closed. 9 AM to 9 PM, I was left alone with my sister. My parents cared for us when we were infants, obviously, they were not negligent. But to provide for us meant to isolate us from them. To put food on the table, they had to work twelve hours a day, a feat that very few people understand the difficulty of. From the get go, I was destined to be accustomed to loneliness. I know that discomfort well, to the point where I’m empowered by it.

I couldn’t go downstairs for more than mere minutes due to the nature of the neighborhood we lived in. People were dangerous, there. I guess they still are. I remember falling asleep to the wails of sirens, ambulances and police cars flying down Capitol Drive, whilst the night’s population whooped and screamed among one another outside. I remember that childlike fear, scared that one day, the sirens would be screeching towards my house, that one day, the night’s demons would entertain the notion of coming inside.

I’ve always had trouble sleeping. When I was a kid, I’d hate going to bed. There was so much to do! So much to play with, so much to read and watch and think about. I used to have so much unbridled energy. I used to run around the house, playing with my toys during dinner, briefly stopping at the table to take a quick couple bites before sprinting back to the races, furiously chewing and swallowing the food so that I could get back to the fun parts. When it came time to sleep, I’d insist on sleeping with a different toy every night, because I was so attached to them. 

But even when I got to that point, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t get comfortable, or stay comfortable. I remember actually being that kid with a flashlight and a book under the covers, desperately trying to fly through the pages so I could get as far as I could before my parents caught me. 

This sleeping habit caught up to me and actually got worse the older I got. Even today, I have to really try to get to sleep. I’ve got a couple of vices that mystically help me fall asleep, but one is an opportunity I no longer have in college and the other is a wonderful woman I can’t spend every night with. 

It really helped during robotics, though. I got so used to sleeping so little that I could go to school for 13, 14 hours in the day and work on homework another three, and sleep for the rest, ready to kick ass the next day, all cylinders firing. I didn’t have time to be tired, then. Then, it was work, fight, win, and nothing else mattered. 

A third vice, if you will, used to be a tempur-pedic mattress that my parents got me as a surprise the first winter break I came back from college. I’d been jokingly asking for one for years, and they actually came through and bought one for me. Reader, I could have cried when my parents told me they’d gotten one for me. It was wonderful. I could fall asleep in it so well, so easily. Maybe it was coming off of the dorm beds, maybe it was something else. But the sleep I got on that mattress was some of the best in my life. That mattress got burnt to a crisp when Best Buy went up in flames. A rather unfortunate occurrence, isn’t it. 

I’m back to shoddy sleep now. I know that discomfort well. I’m able to do a lot of things under pressure that I normally can’t, and falling asleep quickly is one of them. It’s part of the reason I could fall asleep in high school, and why when the house burnt down I was able to stay up for 40 or 50 hours straight without sleeping (yeah, I went home the moment I found out and besides a 30 minute power nap, stayed awake for the next two days until eventually falling asleep in my dorm room on a Sunday towards the night). 

My bed’s not comfortable, but that’s not what keeps me up these days. 

cradily:

will you still love me when i no longer ball so fuckin hard

HA

(via libbykamen)

I’m sick of being the bad guy in what’s supposed to be our fairy tale.

There’s a difference between somebody who wants you and somebody who would do anything to keep you.

Remember that.

A story I haven’t shared. It’s one of the happier ones, I suppose. If it can be called that.

"Stay another fifteen minutes?"

"I can’t, I have to sleep."

"What’s another fifteen minutes?"

"Lost sleep." 

Early 2011

I remember sophomore year, I needed a ride home from school, and robotics. My family was unstable with that sort of thing and more often or not I found myself hanging up the phone, unsure of how I’d get to my house that was so far out of the way for everyone else in robotics. 

One of the many times that occurred, I asked Ana, a friend of mine from robotics. She is a year older than me, and at the time I saw her often enough that I knew she wouldn’t lie and not take me home simply because she didn’t want to go out of her way. 

Well, I asked, and she did go out of her way. On the way, I apologized (perhaps a bit too much) for having her go out of her way. She waved a hand in her air, turned with a smile and said a sentence that I’ll probably never forget. 

"Don’t worry about it, you’re worth it." 

I honestly don’t know how exactly she meant that. Worth what? What was “it”? The trouble of having to drive fifteen minutes out of the way? Worth the fifteen minutes of conversation? I won’t know, but if I had to choose one I think she just thought I was a good friend and a good person, neither of which I can confirm (that would be conceited). 

Either way, it’s something that stuck with me. It made me really happy, for obvious reasons. Someone thought I was worth doing something minutely troublesome for. Someone thought I was worth 15 more minutes that they would end up spending doing something that made me happy (or safely home, in that case). 

Whenever I get the chance to tell someone that I think they’re worth the trouble of whatever I might be doing for them or with them, I say it. 

A sentence; fifteen minutes that meant nothing but the world. 

30 word story (untitled maybe, I dunno)

Who else would understand but him?

The being who had always been?

It was no longer a being.

Nor had it been for some time.

Flames at his heels, burning.

a throwback

An old Untitled will go here shortly

188 - Untitled 46

One hundred and eighty eight days, it’s been.

               One hundred and eighty eight days since I lost my grip and fell. A cacophony of painful phone calls, a harmonic discord of infuriated cries, with the broken shards of humanity falling just as fast as the building did. Years of work, gone, at the behest of the nighttime’s monsters that used to lie under the bed. The cracks began to show in our little foundation, and eventually everything crashed around me and I had no option but to keep building despite everything fall around me; it’s all I know to do. My greatest skill, creation. Used jokingly to infer that I have an air of a godlike entity about me, when it’s really just the only thing I know how to do.

               Putting the phone down and calmly walking out of the lecture hall, albeit at a brisk pace, waving to a friend, explaining that I needed to rush down to University Street before my next class to meet my sister. A smile and a wave back, confirming we’d meet at our next class soon. To him, he must’ve seen me as I usually was, a calm and reassuring voice that minutes before had suppressed his anxiety for an upcoming test, when my mind was an ordered disorder of thoughts that somehow make sense to me when I’m in a panic.

               Meeting her, seeing her break apart. Infuriating. Despite an intense dislike for who my sister has become, I will never stop wanting to put an end to everything that hurts her. Choked voice, teary eyes, she explained it all to me. In between the panicked gasps for air and the shaky explanation, I pieced together what had happened. It hurt, but a certain part of me woke up again, his lips whet by the prospect of a challenge, ready to devour it whole.

               I thrive in that chaos. The greatest things I’ve ever created were in the midst of a disarrayed amalgamation of pain and anger and a burning desire to exceed expectations. It’s a cursed blade. Pretty much all of my achievements were because of that tempest of negative emotions spurring a yearning for success. I give everything to my passions, my great temptations, I can’t help it.

One hundred and eighty eight days, it’s been.

               This time last year, I was a little sad, a little scared, but confident. Loss was a feeling I knew all too well. An alcoholic father made me want to excel. Financial troubles my entire life made me desire for something better whilst giving me the appreciation of having nothing. Everything I have ever faced down left me stronger, yearning for a bigger test, challenging the universe to throw everything at me, to rain fire upon my mind just so I could turn around and use that fire to fuel my ascent to an improved life. I had spent so much time crawling inch by inch, viciously clawing at everything in my sight that I grew used to the climb. I began to take it for granted. The climb was all there was.

               Each swing of my arms forward, each time I sunk my fingers into the rich dirt of the mountains of success and progress, became something I expected.  Each roadblock was nothing more than a mere obstacle. I either ripped it apart, viciously and without any hesitation, or moved around it, ignoring it as I passed it and moved forward. Falling was a feeling I had not felt in a long time, and so when everything fell apart, my fall was long, and the impact large, damning, infinitely painful.

               Losing the house wasn’t the worst part. The irony of it being a fire wasn’t the worst part. The fact that I saw the burnt outlets weeks before and didn’t think it could be a problem wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was everything that came as a result. A reminder that no matter how far I will go, there will always be my origin to haunt me; that I’d lost every pet within a year, something I still can’t bring myself to talk about much at the risk of showing emotions I never want to show; that my parents both love and hate one another—I’m damned if they separate, and damned if they don’t; what I used to have still hurts in its absence, friends now long gone, people so far removed from my life that when I see their name I don’t feel anything anymore. A reminder of pains long forgotten, resurfacing now, all at the same time.

One hundred and eighty eight days, it’s been.

The climb is all there is.

 
this hit way too fucking close to home.
fuck you, fuck you so much. 
this hit way too fucking close to home. 

 

this hit way too fucking close to home.

fuck you, fuck you so much. 

this hit way too fucking close to home. 

One of the best feeling in the world is when you’re hugging the person you love and they hug you back even tighter.

Untitled 45/46 one of the two I think idk

Gushing blood,
open wound.
Impassioned flood,
Go now, doomed.

I wish I could talk to the future me right now. He’d know where to go next

I don’t know that this is the right place for it but I’m hurting so bad all the time and every time I try to say I’m not okay with what’s going on I end up feeling worse, like I’m just pushing everyone away.

I feel so stupid, and lost, and _______. I felt so lonely this week, locked in my head and the only person who knows probably wants nothing to do with me right now.

Today I had a conversation that just made me feel like an ungrateful fuck because I don’t appreciate the small good things in my life enough, but that’s so hard when all bad that happens is complicated, damaging, and actually threatening to my future, if that’s even still there.

I am terrified I will end up losing all the people who made me think having close relationships with others is worth it. I am terrified I will lose her because loss is all I know, and it shows in the way I act.

Chicago

Chicago’s a weird city to me. I’ve really wanted to go down there for a couple years now and just spend the day there.

Well, the first time I was going to go, I dumped the person I had planned to go with. Needless to say, didn’t happen.

Then, on my birthday or the day after, I think, I was going to go with a close friend, but they weren’t able to. Don’t remember why, doesn’t matter anymore. April 2013 sucked ass anyways.

Since then I’ve sort of given up. Any time I try to go there my plans fall through, it’s a bummer. Maybe I’ll just go alone.

Odd, how that works. Feel forgotten a bit, lately.

Fire.