In the Tears of My Saints

Chapter 3: Hiidon

Dearest Esther,

The story you are about to read is true, every word of it. Some of it you know, but some I think will be new to you. Basically, it’s the story of me as I really am. Or, perhaps more precisely, it’s about a story—The Story—around which I have built my life, but it is not the story of my life. It is instead a myth, or tale, or fable, or whatever it suits your picky brain to call it that has guided and influenced the path or direction my life has taken for the last forty years. For example, it’s 12:32 in the morning, and I can’t sleep. Instead, I sit at my desk and stare blankly at the piles of files and books around me, wondering about you, them, The Story, and the effect obsession has had on my life.

Very soon, I will die. I do not say this to be melodramatic or to scare you. I say it because I believe it, and as I stare at all these book in front of me, I can’t help but wonder if you will be able to make sense of them when I am gone. I am gone—I will be gone. The words sound strange when written. But I will. Very soon now, there will be nothing left of me except these books: this mess.

So, before I go, instead of feeling sorry for myself or worrying about you, I’ve decided not to sleep or waste any of the time I have left. Instead, I’ll work my way through this madness and try to bring to order a small part of everything I’ve written here. Perhaps this is silly and futile. Like you always say, nothing will come of my work or this new little journal. I know that. Still, I can’t handle the idea of it all meaning nothing. Perhaps, despite my skepticism, I see this as a means of lingering on, as if some part of me can remain with you.

I think I’ll begin this endeavor with the tale of my early childhood and how I came to hear The Story in the first place. After that, I’ll skip through all the boring stuff in these old journals and highlight the things that brought it to mind throughout my life. Hopefully, this will lead you to at least a partial understanding of who I really am in my mind.

Back then, I wrote differently in the dark times than I did in the light times, so please excuse the confusion. Also, I suspect that some of the things I wrote in the past are not completely accurate and real to life. Unfortunately, I don’t remember which is true and which is not. Journals, in their essence, are a mixed bag of real reactions to the things that surround us, not necessarily truth, so I’ll leave it all as unedited as possible. I hope you’re able to pick your way through the paranoid nonsense and better understand the man that loves you.

I first started recording my thoughts at the age of twenty-two. Around that time, I was having some difficulty maintaining focus on the world around me. There was a lot of fear and insecurity that I didn’t know how to deal with. I found that writing my thoughts, opinions, beliefs, and uncertainties all down before I went to bed every night really helped. Even if it didn’t always help me hold onto reality, at least it helped me cope with the distrust and doubt in a more reasonable fashion.

As you know, I feel much better now than I did at that time. Yet, still today, I have trouble trusting my own perception of things. I guess I just know (I mean really know) what it’s like to have everything I feel and think contradict each other. It’s rough, but the more I learn about myself, the more I realize that sometimes, regardless of what you feel, you just have to go with what you believe.

What you are about to read next is an entry from one of my first journals. The darkness brought The Story strongly to mind, so it’s not surprising that it was one of the first things I wanted to write about.

11-3

Friends,

Life is a funny thing. Or perhaps it is the funny things in existence that make life. Or perhaps that’s just nonsense. However, I do have to start this manuscript with something, so I think for now life will be a funny thing.