My brother is the only person that I know intimately in the after-life. He and I spend most of our time with one another; we often go hiking, fishing, swimming, and play Frisbee or some other sporty activity. My brother and I traveled across the world many times together, and we have decided that Ithaca, New York is the best place for a home base. He reads my diary when I ask him to, but he prefers to not remember anything since dying.
I am not the only one by any means who treats the after-life as a place to read and write. However, according to my journal entries, I have only met a handful. Almost all spirits do not bother spending time recording their memoirs or thoughts, since it takes so much effort and loss of time from their exciting, eternal day.
I guess that I should tell you the after-life's rules before continuing. First of all, every event after death is forgotten each and every day with the required sleep. Second, a spirit may not stay awake any more than twenty hours each day and then must sleep a minimum of four hours. Third, it is impossible to communicate with the living humans on earth or elsewhere; we can not affect "reality" in any shape or form. Fourth, nothing changes in the after-life; the buildings never get any more modern nor is there any new technology for the spirits here to use. Fifth, no one is ever hungry, too full, or ever sick from eating. There is always plenty of food to be had, but why eat if one doesn't have to. And sixth, the only way to have memories after death is to write them down and reread them. Essentially I do not remember telling my brother how I died, and I know that several old journals concern times when I've spoken to him about it. And sixth, there is no time here in the after-life. One is awake for twenty hours, but after awaking nothing has changed except for your immediate surroundings should you travel somewhere from your usual abode. I actually shouldn't even think in terms of time, since there is only infinity. These rules are strict and need not be enforced, since there is no possible way to defy them.
Nothing goes wrong in the afterlife; I cannot get hurt however hard I try. There is no way to turn off the consciousness light like it was possible while alive. When alive, if someone did not like their life, then they could commit suicide and no longer be a part of reality, but in the after-life it is impossible to escape; there is no where to go after here, or at least I don't know how to get there. One entry is of when I jumped off the George Washington Bridge in New York City; apparently I just hit the water and floated back to the surface and swam to shore without any scrapes or bruises. Every old person that I meet in the after-life does not suffer from any major medical complications that they had while alive, there is no more arthritis, heart problems, dementia, physical ailments, or Alzheimer's disease for anyone here.
The funny thing is that we spirits can use everything that we used while alive. I can use a laptop, any machine or device, and play anything that I want to. There is one thing to keep in mind: I do not know how to use anything that takes more than twenty hours to learn. The after-life is not like Ground Hog Day when Bill Murray is able to learn even if he repeats the same day over and over again. Even if I wanted to, I could not learn how to work a nuclear power plant. If I tried to melt down the nuclear facility, I could not. In one entry I did, but nothing happened. I do not know if I was not pushing the right buttons, but nothing bad ever seems to happen after death.
This essay, which may later turn into a book is done on a laptop. I can carry it around with me anywhere, which is more useful than the pads of paper I used to write on for my journals. The piles of paper in my room are enormous, but they never seem to age like everything and everybody else here. I would not know what the laptop was doing in my room if it were not for the large poster on my wall reminding me each time to wake and turn on the computer to reread what I have already written. I reread all my journal entries every day, but I have to do it everyday! It takes me over fifteen hours to reread everything each and every day; which means that there are only five hours left for me to write on this work. I don't have any time to do anything else; but again I shouldn't think in terms of time since there is only infinity. When I was alive I could think day after day about a subject before writing about it; here I have no alternative but to think anew every day. It is most distressing that I cannot learn anymore. I generally enjoy spending my time playing, at least my journal entries indicate such. Since I began this time-consuming work, I have not been out of my house; or at least there are no journal entries about me leaving the house and thinking about putting off my work for a day of rest.
The after-life is so different than being alive in that there are no memories for someone other than the ones they had while alive on earth, never any mental notes since waking in the post-death state. According to my journals, there are very few spirits who have not been married and/or eternally intrigued by the after-life. However, my brother and I never fell in love before our deaths; it is impossible to have any type of new relationship in the after-life that didn't already exist before you died. Without the ability to remember from day to day without rereading a person's diary, then relationships after death become impossible. I meet new people all the time; or at least my diary has a record of people I do not remember meeting, but nonetheless must have since they are described in my diary. Sure I've met many interesting people since my death, but unless I write about them and read that specific entry the same day as I meet them, then I will not recognize them as a friend and all the introductions must be done anew.
A most peculiar aspect about the after-life is that spirits are blissful even if no one can decipher any day from another. Everyone seems happy here, because every day is a new adventure. If one day a person is depressed, then the subsequent day will have no memories hanging over it to make it a bad day. Even those like myself who had really distressing deaths can have constant enjoyment. My brother who had a car accident and bled to death in the freezing snow is happy here; I cannot recall any time when my brother was alive that he was any way happier than he appears now, but again I have only my journal entries to remind me of his changed attitude. There is only one person, according to my journal entries that I have met who really did not like the after-life. But this could just possibly be a bad day for him. The entry does not tell me if he wrote down his memoirs or not. Maybe there are more depressed people I haven't met yet. After this essay or possibly book is written and others read it, then maybe I will find others who do not like their post-death state.
I do not know what happens to invalids, extremely retarded people, babies born with horrible malformations like a twisted spinal column, or even any animal besides humans, since I have never met any in the after-life. I could not even dare to attempt and describe what their states of consciousness might be like.
I know how my brother died; he never has to tell me why or how he died. He passed away when I was still alive, which means I have a very good recollection of his death and the ensuing reverberations. My brother was only nineteen when he died. He and I were not so close as brothers usually are when born close together. We fought a lot; we hated each other sometimes; and we were always in a competition with one another to gain our parents' attention. My brother did everything the exact opposite that I did. He played a musical instrument while I excelled in sports and cared about my studies.
During and after high school, he smoked pot and drank a lot of alcohol. On the other hand, I, after high school, played football and hockey for Mason University. It did not take my brother long to self-destruct after leaving our parents' household. He could never get along with my parents; they always seemed to be at odds. I never found Donna and Tom very difficult to get along with. But my brother did, and this I only understand after dying and finding out who our parents really were.
It was a most disturbing death for me. My last days were nothing to be cherished; in fact they were close to Hell as anyone can get. I do not know how long I have been dead, nor do I know if my parents are dead. They are somewhere, and it is not a priority (not that I could have any that lasted longer than twenty hours) to be around them ever again. I cannot believe what a double life my parents led. Possibly some acquaintances reading my life-story will shine some light upon my situation as being not so unique as I believe it to be.
Mason University is one of the top ten Universities in America, at least it was when I died. Mason was renown for its scientific research; it was more of a research and development university than a teaching institution. However, there were some great professors still around when I attended school there. I studied Anthropology, English, History, and Philosophy. I loved to write, but not too many people really understood my style or viewpoint there. Bad grades did not deter me from constant originality; I found it impossible to write what was expected.
Admittedly, I was never a star student, at least academically. I always knew that it was impossible to seriously compete in any area, since there is always someone better. In my time, unless someone began a particular study or sport at a very young age, then they had no chance of becoming a leader. I was never pissed off at my parents for their lack of help to make me someone extraordinary, because they truly believed the only way to succeed was to make it without any encouragement.
There is one exemplary instance of my parent's attitude. When I was nine-years old, I really wanted to start playing baseball on the local little league team. I did not know it then, but my dad used to be the star pitcher at Texas A&M, his Alma Mater. Anyway, my dad would not help me pitch outside of my team practices. At that age, I had no idea I should have been irate with my father for this, and I grew up believing that all parents let their kids rise or fall according to their own innate ability. Not being born a prodigy, I was never able to drive myself to great heights. I thought a lot about my parents' philosophy while in college and agreed with it after much contemplation, despite my hatred for who they truly were, which was only revealed to me just before I died.
Even without being a star, teachers spoke favorably of me, coaches liked my attitude; parents liked my friendliness and good manners; girls liked my openness; and all my friends loved my unique attitude. My physical appearance wasn't anything that stood out from the rest of the football or hockey teams; I was just plain not recognized for my build. Like I said before, originality was my only forté, and it seemed to carry me through college as a popular guy on and off the rink and field.
Mason University was by far the most beautiful of the top ten universities in the United States. Mason essentially owned an entire town; two-thirds of the property belonged to the immense educational institution. The annual budget consumed more than two billion dollars. The University's facilities were all excellent; the town looked rustic, but everything was solid. Rustic areas tend to be a bit run-down and decrepit like my home town in Upstate, N.Y., but not Mason, N.Y.
My favorite place to go at Mason University was not any specific class, or building, or professor's office to discuss an issue. I loved the area called the Plantations. There were immense cement statues, green pastures of mown grass, no more than two of any tree species, mazes sided by so many different types of trees, and so much more beauty that changed with each season. Miniature forests scattered over the two hundred-acre plot made for great hide-aways to write poetry, think about life, and chill. My fondest memories of Mason University are of the Plantations, at least the best times before my subsequent torture and death below my beloved sculpture garden. I lost my virginity in the area called Slim Jim Woods; what a night that needs to remain all mine. I smoked pot and got really, really drunk for the first time under an immense oak tree, which is near the eastern end of Slim Jim Woods. The sculpture garden is the site of my most poignant memory as well, which is where I first came into contact with conscious beings from elsewhere than earth. Mason University probably spent over a billion dollars on this place.
A billion dollars in my days before death, which was August 5, 1996, was a lot of money for sure. The surface features of the Plantations do not appear to cost relatively much at all, and this is true. The landscaping above ground probably cost under two million to build. It was underneath the Plantations that required serious financing.
I never had any idea of what lay beneath the sculpture garden and the surrounding hills. I think back to when I was once incredibly stoned with some friends and wandering around the Plantations in the final stages of winter; this was not the first time I got baked by any means. The snow had not completely melted yet and only remained in minute remnants from an unusually warm winter. The ground was still frozen; trees had not started to bud yet; and the air was still crisply winterish. My friends and I were so completely baked that each step was a stumble rather than a coordinated movement. And, through our wanders on the outskirts of the Plantations, we came upon these peculiar grates in the ground. They were essentially storm grates like the ones seen on streets to drain away rain water and melting snow. But, these grates were out in the middle of nowhere and had warm air blowing out of them. It was as if the grates were actually vents for some large structure, and the strange thing was that there were no buildings for over a half mile in every direction except some horse barns and a large parking lot for the newly built veterinary building hosting a slew of new laboratories for Mason's enormous research needs.
My friends and I took great notice of these grates. We stood over them and puzzled for what seemed like a long time but was probably only a matter of minutes, which always appear as hours when stoned. I never gave these grates a second thought after our long journey around the Plantations until I died and began writing this essay.
This next portion has completely been pieced together by old journal entries.
I travelled back to Mason University many atimes since dying. I wanted to trace the steps I took and find out exactly what lay underneath the Plantations. I walked around for days trying to find an entrance to the underground structure where I was tortured to death in one of its many hundreds of rooms. I eventually remembered the vents and found them again. They were still there, nothing had changed since I died. The grates were securely cemented into the ground, but they were nothing that a large welding apparatus couldn't cut through. It seemed to easy. I dropped down into the shaft and dropped about a hundred feet, but lucky for me nothing bad happens in the after-life.
At the bottom I followed the vents to a place where I could exit the vent and walk around in the sunken building. It was all too amazing to see. Everything was spotlessly clean and new looking. My entries are numerous of this place, which means I must have spent days roaming around in the building. I came upon a large room with tons of TV screens, which all had different places in the building and outside the structure on their screens. Large panels of knobs and dials and switches filled the room completely from side to side. There was only room enough to walk to the many different positions obviously manned by many, many people every day. I found an office with a slew of file cabinets within it. After reading only a little, it was obvious to me finally what had gone on under the Plantations. Mason University had been using the sculpture garden as a disguise for their large antennas sending electromagnetic signals deep into space. Apparently, for quite some time Mason had been trying to make contact with other intelligent life in the Universe; I beat them to it.
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My last days were the longest time of my entire life, which should not even be considered days, since I never slept a wink over the ninety-six hours of torture. I have been through physically torturous times before, especially during my first years of middle and high school. When I was in the seventh grade, I burnt nineteen percent of my body by blowing up an aerosol can filled with white, enamel paint. The paint covered me from head to my waist; I was not wearing a shirt that day, and the second-degree burns covered the front of my body. This was the only time that I ever asked to be euthanatized; never before or after the first two days in the hospital did I ever ask someone to kill me in order to take away the pain.
The pain I endured underneath the Plantations was close but not beyond my threshold levels. I dislike to think about the seventh grade and the subsequent years in high school, since there was so much pain involved and no way to escape it with either pain killers or mental trickery. After the physical pain was over, I was allowed to go back to school, which is where the real mental anguish began. Kids treated me like a leper, but that only helped to build up my character and independence from social norms and social guidelines set by popular groups, which was not apparent to me until much, much, much later.
The beginning of the end began on August 1, 1996. August is particularly beautiful at Mason University. Only the students who remain behind or nearby enough to visit on the weekends get to enjoy this most beautiful month. I loved the summers there; I swam all the time at a nude bathing area, which was a large reservoir out in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but trees surrounded this enormous body of water where only the locals or adventuresome swam. I also sailed on the nearby Finger Lake almost every day. Walks were taken every day and night.
On August 1, 1996, I smoked up, drank mixed drinks, and took some speed with a friend of mine visiting me from Maine. He and I stayed in my room playing Monopoly for about three hours while zoning out to music by the Butthole Surfers. At the end of the game, he decided to crash in the extra bedroom in my apartment. And I was not ready to sleep. I had a lot of energy, and the night was gorgeous and lit by a full moon. Whenever there are full moons I take a walk; it is mandatory. The Plantations seemed the best scene for me, since there would not be any people to bother me out there. I gathered my cigarettes, lighter, pipe, and stash. It was warm enough to just wear shorts and a tank top.
Anyway, it was about 3 A.M. when I finally left the house. I wandered around the man-made lake named BeeBee Lake, which is at the most western arm of the Plantations; the night was so gorgeous. I didn't know it then, but it was the last full moon I would ever walk underneath as a conscious being.
I reached the entrance of the Plantations by 4 A.M. My goal was to make it to the sculpture garden before 5 A.M. I had over an hour to fool around on the way. Like a clod that I once was, I tried to climb the great Oak tree at the eastern end of Slim Jim Woods and jammed a finger and cut another; my hand was smeared with the dark, rich substance that I can never see again. The red ooze is only slightly thicker than water without the platelets to clog its uninterrupted flow: blood. I then made my way up a slight hill passing three weeping fir trees and back down the other side. At the base of the hill was the sculpture garden; a friend of mine once called it a the result of a fine arts class project on steroids. There are about ten sculptures in all; there is only one which I can not climb, because the posts are nearly twenty feet high and completely sheer. In the foreground of this gorgeous site is a small man-made lake with a Japanese-style landscape. A small bridge spans the shallow, stagnant water.
I love climbing one particular sculpture. It looks like an antenna to the Gods. A semi-circle made of cement is held up by two large, square beams firmly stuck in the ground. A block of concrete is suspended between the two supports by an extension that is held tightly at the bottom of the semi-circle on top. The entire statue stands about twelve feet off the ground. Scaling this piece is not too difficult; it could be done with my eyes closed.
I reached the top and broke out my cigarettes. I lit one and hit it hard. I loved to really suck down my cigarettes; they gave me a great buzz when finished quickly. The night was so serene; no one around but me and the statue garden. I finished the cigarette quickly and decided to pack a bowl of pot for myself. I reached into my right pocket and pulled out the necessary utensils: a bag of weed, a bowl, and a lighter. Then the most amazing thing ever happened. I glanced at the horizon and saw a bright light, brighter than any star or airplane. It seemed to move toward me.
I could not believe it; it was a UFO. Maybe a space-craft is a better description. The ship was round in nature with a domed top. I rubbed my eyes and temporarily convinced myself with my eyes shut that it was all a hallucination. Nope, when I opened my eyes again, the saucer was hovering overhead. No words can describe the thoughts racing through my mind. Anxiety and fear consumed me; I needed to get off the statue and get the hell out of there. I left my bowl and weed and lighter on top of the statue and jumped down. Of course, as always, my luck ran short, and I twisted my ankle on impact.
I didn't know it then, but the sculpture garden was really a set of large antennas used by Mason University to send various messages into space. Apparently an alien race finally responded to our pleas for contact, however their visit didn't help me in the least to become famous as the first person to ever meet a creature from another planet.
I pulled myself to my feet and began to hobble away. The ship's lights made it seem like day time out. Everywhere was brightly lit. I stopped on the nearby paved road and looked back at the ship and turned back around to get the heck out of there. An unrecognizable being was right in front of me. He didn't wear a helmet or anything else. The being seemed naked. He laid a hand on my shoulder and suddenly I was not on the ground anymore. I was sitting in a large chair in a completely foreign room. The being transported me to the ship.
The room filled up with these aliens; none were wearing clothing. I remember their physiques as plain as day; they were all the same; I couldn't tell any variation between them. Skin sagged around their necks, the eyes were all red like albino animals; mouths were markedly large, but the lips were not. Their heads seemed much smaller than any cranium I have ever studied on a grown human, which I had to do for one Anthropology class. Their height was less than five feet tall, and the legs couldn't have been longer than two feet. The feet were surprisingly wide; they had five digits on each foot like our toes. The arms were long and skinny; only four fingers on each bony hand, and each finger was twice as long as any of mine.
I can't describe the terror I experienced then. However this fear would soon be dwarfed by what I was going to endure. About twenty of these creatures sat in the couch-like furniture against every wall except at the room's entrance. I could see outside, since the walls were made of a clear material like glass. I sat in the middle of the room too terrified to move. They all stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. I must have lost consciousness.
I awoke in a dream-like state in a completely darkened space. I floated in the air and unable to move a muscle. My head hurt; the worst headache ever made me bite down hard and grit my teeth. Just as suddenly as I fell unconscious I began to sense a stream of strange imagery flooding my senses. I cried; I laughed; I smiled; I cringed; I feared. So much flew around my neural pathways; then they told me what I would later be questioned to death for. They told me about the after-life and exactly how I was going to die. I don't know how long I was suspended in space and fed this constant stream of vivid imagery, but it did end. I must have fell unconscious again.
Again I awoke in a dream-like state in a completely dark room. I didn't know it then, but I was immediately underneath the Plantations. This time I was tied down to a wooden chair; I screamed, "Someone Help Me! Help Me!" A door opened making the room dimly lit with light that I can't remember visiting after dying but a journal entry definitely describes it. I closed my eyes and then someone flicked a switch and the entire room became brightened by halogen lights. I looked down and saw my hands tied to the arms of a wooden chair with leather straps. My legs were bound to the chair's legs. Only my head was free to move about.
I didn't recognize the person, who was a human. He smiled. I screamed, "Let me go, let me go, let me go."
He closed the door and took a seat next to mine. He sat in his chair backwards and cupped his hands with elbows folded and resting on the chair's back. "What did you do tonight son?"
I didn't want to talk; I wanted to get loose and go home. "Nothing happened; I just want to go home!"
"Well, something did happen. And I want you to tell me what it was." His accent was definitely European, and his speech was congenial.
"I don't know what you are talking about. I just want to go home." I could not look into his eyes; I have always been a bad liar.
"Ok, I will let you think about this for a while, and then we will talk later." He lifted himself from the chair and walked out of the room. The light switch was left on and the door closed.
I figured that someone or some people were watching me; the enormous mirror covering the wall in front of me was probably a two-way mirror. I shouted, "why am I here!?!" I didn't want to talk, just make everything go away by falling asleep and forgetting. Hours upon hours passed; I wasn't wearing a watch, but there was a large clock in the room that read eight o'clock when the lights were first turned on. The bright lights prevented me from sleeping; in addition every time I started to wane from exhaustion, someone would come in and punch me awake.
Sixteen hours later at twelve o'clock, the first man to interrogate me walked back in with a leather bag. I begged for him to please let me go, and we could forget everything. However, his plans did not include any release other than that from an existence as a conscious being. He asked me again, "Please tell me what happened last night."
I could not tell him. I cried, "Please let me go. I did not do anything wrong. I'm sorry for smoking pot. Please let me go. Please let me go."
He interrupted with a smile and said, "Just tell me what happened, and you won't have to be tied up anymore."
I couldn't. I could never tell the secret until I am a spirit in the after-life. "Please let me go. I won't tell anyone about this. Just please let me go."
This time he interrupted my cries with a shout, "Tell me what happened! Or else you are going to be in a lot of pain!"
"Fuck you. Let me go now!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.
"Maybe you will reconsider with some encouragement." He opened his bag and pulled out some kind of metal contraption with a long, thin steel point. He came over to me as I pled for him to let me go and inserted the needle-like piece into my elbow. He shoved it in at the joint and pushed it up towards my left shoulder. The pain was excruciating; I could feel the needle's tip rise up through my arm to my bicep. The screaming did not stop him. I cried and cried. But, I couldn't tell what the aliens had told me.
It is useless for me to describe any of the horrors I endured, since anyone else who has gone through what I have will recognize it without me having to relate the extensive torturing. I don't know if anyone else has made a similar contact with aliens and later tortured to death by some institutional power. This is the premise for me writing this; I want to find others, since there must be some. There must be. My last ten minutes were the most riveting.
My body was limp from puncture wounds. My legs numb from substantial bleeding and crusted from blood dripping at too many openings to count. The clock had passed the eight o'clock position almost eight times already. I had had several visitors, all of whom tried to convince me first with threats and then with torture to tell them what had happened that night. The people I saw before I died was my dad and mom.
They came in the room about an hour after the last man had left. Each smiled, which made me feel warm all over. "Mom, Dad, I am in so much pain right now." I cried and cried.
My dad sat in the chair all of my torturers had. He sat facing me. He put his hand on my forehead and said, "Oh Charlie, I am so, so sorry that you had to endure all this pain." My mom just stood by my side and smiled without saying a word.
I cried too much to speak words. I mumbled stuff, but none of it sounded sensible.
"Charlie, please pull yourself together and tell me what happened that night." My dad asked me with the coldest tone I had ever known him to speak with.
"Dad?" I tearfully asked.
"Please don't make this any harder on yourself and tell me about it." I couldn't believe he could be so calm while his son rested tied up in a chair with numerous puncture wounds.
"Fuck you Tom! Fuck you Donna. I can't believe you. Stuart was right. Why?" Somewhere energy came to my vocal chords, because my words were very loud and harsh.
"Oh Charlie, please tell us." But he didn't know that I couldn't even if I wanted to.
"Fuck you Tom! Fuck you." Those were my last words, which was followed by my last conscious action, which was to spit in Tom's face. Tom pulled out a gun, and showed it to me. I still shouted "Fuck you" at him. He put the gun to my temple and asked me once more to tell him what happened that night. Again "Fuck you" were the only words coming from my mouth.
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This essay started off as a recollection of my last few days and what I considered the after-life to be. The information about the after-life comes from numerous journal entries, actually 150 in total; and all reflections after rereading these notes each and every day, since I began writing. I did not realize where I was going with this story, which used to be possible when I was alive. I had originally planned on writing a long description of the after-life, a description of my death, which would have been followed by my recorded adventures in the after-life. But over the course of writing this piece, I decided to omit what has happened here in the after-life. It wasn't interesting enough for me to write and hope that others would find it at all interesting. The last portion of my work is a series of my thoughts concerning the after-life. You see, this is most fascinating for me to find input on rather than comments on my adventures since death.
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When you are alive, you can think about something day after day. In the after-life, I can only think day by day. It is impossible to learn anything here, because everything is forgotten during sleep. Only a couple of my journal entries mention thinking about writing a not-yet-started long story about the after-life, thus I must have thought about it after I died but cannot remember one iota.
I do not know how long I've been writing this essay. It could have been millennia or maybe just a few years. There are no journal entries since the time I supposedly began writing this thing. But, I wouldn't know if I had started this essay and then went on travels somewhere across the world, since there are no journal entries mentioning thought concerning this essay and being somewhere different other than in my room near Mason University.
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Routine can be very distressing for those alive on earth. Routine often is tied up with a quick passing of time; before you know it, an entire lifetime has passed you by. When we are alive, we strive to find ways to pass time. Some strategies that I remember my friends using before I died were to smoke marijuana, drink alcohol, use illicit drugs, read all the time, indulge themselves with a time-consuming hobby, find a job and bury themselves in constant work, or just live a "normal" existence without any especially remarkable achievements other than marrying, having children, raising those children, and making it to the ripe age of seventy or more. I wonder what my friends and parents are doing nowadays.
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How long have I been dead. Nothing has changed since I died. The buildings have not gotten any more modern. Nothing seems degenerated since the day I died. Is this heaven? Is this hell? Is this just the after-life? I don't have any answers, but maybe with this paper in hand and a poster board to remind me of my mission, I will be able to find out or get some educated consensus. Maybe there are others like me who care to answer the question, or should I just forget all this and enjoy the after-life? I don't know.
From the journal entries that I've reread countless times but can't remember doing any more than once today, I am ready to make the decision myself. It is time for me to put this piece aside, forget it, and start enjoying the after-life for what it has to offer instead of striving to find answers to questions seemingly trivial here. I'll surely show this to my brother and reread it occasionally, but there is no longer a poster board in my room to remind me to reread journal entries and continue working on something that won't be remembered the next day.