It's been six years since I saw the first season. I sensed that I shouldn't - I remember hovering over the play-button, having this uneasy feeling in my stomach. But I had no idea what I would eventually witness. There was no way I could have foreseen that a work of fiction could trigger such emotions and obsessive thoughts, but it did.
I constantly had this feverish hope of a resolution, a conclusion, - - a happy ending, as comical and immature as it now sounds to say. I knew what should happen next - I knew all the mythology to be false and nonsensical, I knew the truth, the answer - the help that never came. The extreme, permeating sense of hopelessness was made all the more powerful because there were genuine moments of beauty, too.
I suppose that beauty was what enabled the emotional connection to grow, so much so that I no longer heard or listened to the quiet, little voice in my head that said, "stop". The moment I was lulled into a false sense of security, the real psychological violence could begin, and I could no longer separate myself from it, because I cared. I needed to see. But that's how it was designed to be, how it was crafted.
Those few days and nights were gone in a flash, and all that was left was an emptiness, and a mental storm. My imagination kept making alternative endings, creating new stories, tearing down and questioning the existing personalities, seemingly trying to erase the negatives completely. I couldn't sleep, and I felt anxious, restless and sad. Instead of being able to direct my attention elsewhere, I couldn't think about anything else for several months.
The worst thing was that I couldn't talk to anyone. I carried this anxiety inside of me, but I knew it wouldn't make sense to anyone else. How could I possibly verbalise everything to someone, who would only see "entertainment", or "art"? The issue was not distinguishing reality from fiction, but the fact that such a work had been made in the first place, that such a message existed at all.
It must be so that I see a part of myself somewhere in there, or else I would not feel like this, still today. I think about the gift that artists have, to use for good - or to simply make everyone feel as they once did, beat into submission. I know that John has merged that judgement into his identity - what, then, gives me the right to wish his life's work would cease to exist? (Or that I would?) In his grief, the whole world is made to grieve with him, but what does it solve? Moreover, what does it cause?
I wish I could forget. After carefully avoiding seeing anything that might remind me, and so, bring the despairing fever back - my heart still skips a beat when I see her silhuette, by accident, in a little black square on pinterest. When I see orchids, - "is it poisonous?", when people talk about horror, about crying when their favourite characters die - it's the symbol of hope that dies, in a world that already has so much death. And still, someone will mistake me for "a fan", even when there are those two words forbidden in my life - penny...
I don't know why I'm writing this to the void, in the middle of the night - today, years after the initial, drastic impact. There seems to be enough distance between the story and me, to see how much I could have protected myself from. I hope some of you understand me... (and if you do, please tell me so.) And if you don't, let this stream of consciousness remind you that what you watch is what you think, and those thoughts become your reality.
I wish Vanessa had a grave in this life, so that I could bring her a white rose, for each day that I live, having to remember her suffering.
pixelskylines
kaledo-art
discoholicmusic
annaxmalina
vaporwave
