These words are proof of my existence. As long as I am writing this I am real or was real. I’m really not sure anymore. Let me start from the beginning, or maybe this was the end, the end of my sanity at least.
I originally started writing this as a simple diary, a basic account of day to day life, yet now there seems to be only an endless night, constant darkness and I’m afraid if I stop writing, I may stop existing all together. These words are the only thing I can look at and know for certain.
I really don’t even know who I’m writing this to. Whoever is reading it by now I suppose. If these lines fall in front of the eyes of complete strangers I don’t mind, the truth is everyone is a stranger to anyone at some point in life. Just think of the word stranger, we are all strange in one way or another. I’d rather be called strange than normal, no one thinks twice about what is considered normal, but if you’re strange, you’re a mystery and everyone loves a good mystery.
My own name is a mystery, chosen from within the epic poem The Raven. I am Lenore, yes, named after the lost Lenore from Poe’s tortured words. Named after a ghost, a memory, this has always troubled me.
Why this name was chosen for me I’ll never know. My mother passed before I was old enough to understand the origin and my father really never understood why it was so important I carried the name, he just obeyed my mother’s wishes. There are few things I remember about her, I’m not too fond of remembering things, the mind has a way of twisting and contorting what the eyes capture. Sometimes a memory sneaks up on you, cradles you and makes you feel warm, right before it eases the blade of reality through an already scarred heart. Yet those brief moments of tranquility it offered is enough to make you foolishly welcome it again and again. Memories are useless things, even if I try not to keep them, they’re always there.
I have researched Poe’s work and studied his words in hopes I would understand who Lenore actually was, before she became this agonizing, unreachable, force. There were theories that she was the mother of a childhood friend of Poe. Regardless of who she was, it is who she became that is remarkable. Someone who inspired such love and such pain, that a person spends most of their life trying to extinguish it with ink on paper
I have always been fascinated by the ability of one mere mortal to do this to another. There are many types of relationships, many types of love, many of both come and go, Many words are spoken and promises broken, but there is always that "one”. You immediately understand because while reading these words you felt it, right there in that spot of the soul that was formed by that "one" and has remained theirs alone. We as humans are capable of amazing things; there have been advances in science, medicine and technology way beyond even our parents’ expectations. Our bodies and minds have remarkable protection and preservation abilities, yet love, true uncontrollable love, a mere emotion, can trigger our own self destruction like nothing else. Passion is one of the greatest threats to a person’s sanity.
I know this because I’ve experienced it and am still experiencing it at this very moment. As I said these words are the only things I can be sure of anymore. I understand the saying "like a moth to a flame" think about it, something so beautiful and warm, your basic instinct is to gravitate towards it, but you soon discover it's destructive and painful. You know it cannot end well but you are willing to risk it, to be close to what you feel is perfection , for one moment of true happiness even if it may be your last. If you think about it, this is all just chemical reactions in our bodies that trigger emotions but I believe there is more to it than this, what surrounds us, the events that occur, the timing they occur in, these all cannot be just random acts. There is more, there has to be, no, there needs to be, why else would I keep writing this, why else would you keep reading?
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