Dear Journal
I honestly have no idea why Iâm writing to an inanimate object, but Miri suggested that it would help me vent my feelings when we have to stay reasonably quiet on our way to Two. Makes sense, I guess, since there always seems to be something to worry about these days. Some of them arenât even what most would call ârealâ. Theyâre just vices that have multiplied since that night in Six. Itâs strange, being without a father. Despite his cruelty, I still feel empty. I still feel like someone took a bone out of my spine, albeit a small one.Â
If there was a god to pray to, I would pray for those who have been affected by my inability to truly cope. Miri has already forgiven me and Iâve made peace with the mutt I lashed out at. Thereâs just someone who, if anything, Iâve proved my weakness to in the last few weeks. My father had me at the age I stand at right now and was close to a good friend of mineâs number when he fell. Like I said, his death was like taking away a rock to lean against. Even when I remembered his beatings, Piston Rorikstead was one of the few constants in my chaotic life. After he died, I latched onto the first middle aged man I could find, a man who wasnât suited for the job nor wanted it in the first place.
We all have our sins. Even you, journal, have loose bindings that could easily fall apart if pulled. We canât change it, just maneuver our lives about it like an obstacle. I am no exception to this. Even before the bombing, I was cold to everyone but a selected few who had somehow broken out of the prison my mind puts the worldâs population into. Sometimes theyâre caught and thrown back in, but sometimes they never come back. I thought I was unique in this, but now I realize how wrong I was. The man I had latched onto was like me and, despite how much I wished to break out, I am still stuck inside of his prison. I know I cannot change that. I know that there are people who will never join me and, while I envy them, it is his decision in the end.Â
During my Games, Mac explained humans to me in a way that Iâll never forget. People are just complicated machines. If they donât please you but are functioning properly, then donât try to fix them. Not every person is meant to be worked on in certain ways, much like a car cannot be fixed using train parts.Â
And Brutus, if you ever read this, know that youâre the man I spoke of and that I cannot apologize enough for using the wrong parts on your machine.
Depressed but accepting,
Alumina P. Rorikstead
