[dismp] what does it feel like, to have been banned?
On a quiet hilltop, there sits a pair of twin graves. The world has moved forward; And yet here, in this space, there is nothing.
Time stands still, the earth itself is holding its breath. It seems to know it's time has come and went. Still, it waits.
There is a letter sitting on the leftmost grave.
Open it?
The paper crinkles under your fingertips and the earth's heart begins to beat. Perhaps for the final time.
Hello?
Can you hear me?
I can't see you, but I hear it. The 'yes' that falls from your lips. I shouldn't. I shouldn't be here.
I'm a corpse, Blue, and this tomb knows it. I'm dead, and I didn't even have time to rot. Maybe I already did. Before all of this. Does it even matter? I'm still not meant to be alive.
When I woke up, I was drowning. There was no current. There was no pull of the tides, but I felt it. The salt water on my face, the tightness in my chest. The tomb I made for myself desecrated in my absence. A reminder that the world didn't end when I did. Is that important to me anymore? That I wasn't forgotten if people cared enough to visit still?
I woke up alone, even if I could hear the presence of other people five thousand blocks from my death. A chorus. A reminder of what I'd done to myself. This tomb was supposed to set me free. Why do I still feel caged? Your voice wasn't with theirs. It should have been.
Did you miss me when I left? I missed you. It was only a day, and I still missed you. I'm alive and I miss you. I shouldn't be. I shouldn't. I am. I still do.
The page falls to the floor, mud soaks into your slacks, knees wet and skin warm from the sun that gleams down onto you. The earth hums and hums and hums.
You pick up the next page.
The first thing I did was take back my things. Everything was different than I left it. My shulkers in the wrong place. Too many hearts in the barrel. Too many hearts in my chest. The sword in my hands felt foreign, like a gun to a priest. Like a pen to the state. Like my hand intertwined with
I felt it beating in my chest. Every heart in unison telling me to go back. Where was I supposed to go? I didn't have anyone else. I didn't have anywhere else? I lost you when I died. No, I had you still. Maybe I shouldn't. I hurt you. I'm glad you're not here. It's that rude of me to say? I'm glad you aren't here. And I still miss you.
I went to your library. Sometimes I forget how much I was never privy to. I didn't know your secrets. It's easy to forget when I knew the biggest one—you. The real version of it.
Was this meant to be your tomb? You never died. Not in the final way I did. You didn't want to. I never would have offered. If you had asked, I wouldn't have had the strength.
I was a coward.
Not like you.
I'm selfish.
Not like you.
Some things might never change.
I'll sit here and read every page. And I'll miss you.
Visiting my grave was the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm not sure why I went there. No, that's not true. I needed him, then, when I felt it most. I needed to be dead. I felt it, over and over. So much I'd left unfinished. I wanted to leave it behind. I chose it, knowing what that would be sacrificing. I'm glad I did. Nothing made me feel more at peace than taking what I wanted after feeling so devoid of options.
Still, it was hard not to walk and feel the disappointment entrenched amongst it all. Everything I'd left behind, a testament to my selfishness. My fear. My inability. Who could love this? What I was and what I'd become? Did it matter what it meant to me if it meant nothing to anyone else?
I still don't know if anyone noticed. I still don't know if they cared. To be honest, I don't want to know. No, that's not true. I want to know. I don't think I'm strong enough to hear the truth. If I could have died alone, without the the broadcast or fanfare, I would have. Spare me the judgement. Spare me the curiosity. Let me rest.
I buried myself, or I tried, when I saw it. No, don't ask why I did it to begin with. You know the answer. You can feel it, can't you? The urge. The dirt underneath your fingernails. The mud that sticks to fur, hair. The knots. The way everything screams that you don't belong. I buried myself, and I found them. Books. Trinkets. Hearts. Sometimes I think you were the only two who loved me.
Thank you for giving me a grave. I didn't expect anyone to visit.
I don't have anything else to say. I came back to write a book, and then? I don't know why I'm here. I shouldn't be. I'm scared that I want something I can't have. Are you going to make me say it? I miss you. I love you. I want you—desperately. But you're not here. Even when I've come back to life, you evade me.
Whatever. It doesn't matter any more. I can't take this dull ache in my chest any longer. If the server wants me gone, then so be it. It feels wrong for me too. I've been selfish enough for a lifetime, anyways.
There isn't an ending. Not a proper one. Well, maybe it felt fitting once. To someone else. But not you.
The earth keeps spinning. It's pulse beats underneath your weight, and everyone moves on.
