The ArsonistI am Dilpreet.
I write things. 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.
And I wouldn't have had it any other way.
Go now, doomed.
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’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.
I’m going to get better, I’m going to stay angry, and fuck off if you want to get in the way of that.
I’m sick of this feeling.
waking up hungry, thirsty, with a head ache you’ve had since before you went to sleep, and feeling shitty about the happenings of yesterday is fucking demoralizing.
Here we are, again, dear friend. It’s been some time, hasn’t it? I don’t quite remember when the last time we sat together was. I guess that’s the nature of our dichotomy, our little arrangement, our fucked contract. I need you like you need me, Arsonist, and I don’t see that changing anytime in the future. Whether we like it or not, we’re stuck, and every time either of us tries to get past it, the world will remind us that we are not to leave one another for too long.
Pain is an odd thing. It’s always a different feeling. At first, it was dull, flat, bland. Pain was bad, and that was it. I remember that. I hated it, I did, but I didn’t know anything worse. I wish I could go back to that, go back to that innocent stupidity that governed my actions and existence. Stupidity is bliss—you don’t know any better. When you’re stupid—which is to say, when you’ve experienced nothing, nothing at all to show you how the gears run and the clocks tick—nothing matters the way things do now.
It turned pretty dark pretty quick. Pain wasn’t flat, it was a shape that kept changing every time I tried to get a handle on it. As soon as I realized it was cyclical in nature, it turned into a pyramid scheme where the further I got in figuring it out, the more I realized how fucked up it was. I remember that too, pretty well. It was right around the time everything with my dad peaked.
Soon after that, the pain manifested itself as the Arsonist. The shapes solidified and remained consistent, and I decided to put all that hurt, all the wounds and gouges, ripped skin and bandages towards creating a part of myself that was made up only of the pain. I was him and he was me, and there was no in between. All that pain turned into fire and I would’ve done anything to keep those fires burning, all the time.
I was on point then, merciless, unbelievably stubborn and inconceivably arrogant. Nothing was going to stop me, and nothing did. Anyone who stood in my way did not stay there long. That energy pulled me through high school. Towards the end, right after robotics ended, the Arsonist and I took a breath together, for the first time. It was an odd feeling, that. I finally felt a little more in control, rather than just letting that primal rage consume me and take over. A little more directed, a little more controlled. A tool now, not a last resort. That’s what pain was, then. A tool.
And now, it’s different. It’s still a tool…but now there’s something else. A plunging feeling in my throat, a knife through my mind, twisted ninety degrees clockwise. Irreparable. The taste of blood leaks into my mouth, and I want to lash out and hurt something. Now, I feel attacked and at risk more than I ever have. Every time I feel this pain, something is responsible and I want nothing more than to kill it, rip it to shreds and leave no trace that it ever existed.
Fuck, it makes me so uncomfortable. I have to wait, and bide my time, and wait for the perfect opportunity to do everything I wan-that I need to. I don’t think I could ever ask anyone else for help. It’s just me and myself, a tale of two beings, the _______ and the Arsonist.
A good feeling is when you’re in a bad mood and someone stops talking to you cold turkey when they knew you were in a bad mood
if it wasn’t fucking obvious, the above paragraph is sarcasm
Beau Taplin || the hours between. (via twelve-ten)
i’m going to write something about this…but fuck the hours between 12pm and 12am. Between 12am and 6am, there’s a special 6 hours that you don’t quite experience unless you routinely stay up for them.