The window grew smaller with each day, but still Dylan preferred his seat on the top of the couch, legs dangling over the edge, face facing the outside. He watched the other turtles play, and even though he told his mom he didn’t care to join in their games, he really did. But every time he went up to ask them if he could play, he would get scared and pretend he was outside for some other reason. Even though Dylan liked being around other turtles his age, he didn’t like the feeling he got when he got close to them and they would stare at him, wondering what his next move would be. His stomach would twist and twist into a triple helix, and this would slow him down or make him turn around in the opposite direction, his head as far down into his shell as he could get it without the whole world going black. Sitting on the couch, he reflected on why he felt like that, and why no one else seemed to, but luckily Dylan could still make up stories pretending he was with them. In his little turtle brain, Dylan invented games, conversations, even arguments, because he wanted to experience more than just the view from the top of the couch. Dylan liked smiling, and laughing, and he liked those things even more when someone else was doing it with him, and for the same reasons. Laughing is like chicken pox, the crazy old tortoise who lived in a shack would tell him. And he believed it. The crazy old tortoise also told him that the Jews had too much power, but Dylan was a bit more skeptical about that one. Crazy old tortoise, they don’t even have undisputed control of Israel, you crazy old tortoise, Dylan would say. Ever since Dylan was a tadpole, he believed strongly that the right to die is something that should be decided on a state level, but he also understood why the federal government sticks its stupid head into his grandmother’s business. It’s laughable that you would even presume dragons have never existed., what with their image conjured independently all over the world for years and years. This frightens but excites me. One day I will own a dragon, and the next I will be one. My mind’s capacity is reached, and every step is painful. I hear all. My thoughts take over completely. Depression isn’t sadness. It’s not anger. But it’s in me. I thought I had figured it out, how to stay positive about the world and my place in it. My stomach is being ripped apart. But it’s endless. This is just part of it. It doesn’t have to be, but it can, and I need to be strong with it. Food is necessary. Salt, sugar, calories. I can’t imagine a future where this feeling subsides. I know it’s there, it has to be, but I can’t picture it. Keep myself stupid. Keep myself creative. Better agonizing over life than wandering blankly. Your body trying to find yourself. The real you. When you connect with someone, or something, that’s another part of you that you have found. We are not all meant to be human, though most of us want it. The connection is that feeling, the one we work to set up to make it easier to reach. You can find it on your own. But don’t assume that your approach is the only one. Do not force yours on others, even if it works. You can steer them towards a path, this path to apparent enlightenment, but never be confounded why your way is not always accepted and followed. The chemicals we are each given, and give ourselves, alter the course, and my ultimate experience will never be yours, as it shouldn’t. Acutely aware of what often generates positivity, so we share a moment that leads us both to where we want to be. Afterwards, we will be different. I want to get it down but you’re holding me back. I don’t want to wake you, I should leave the moment alone, but I want to capture it. I can’t have both. I close the door and move, sitting on the edge of the bath, hoping you don’t hear me type. Father, nothing hurts more than when I feel like you’ve moved past me. My stomach blown out by a shotgun’s blast. I can’t write. I can’t think. I can type, but even that is forced. I’m not ready for this to be over, for your neglect to supercede your obligation. I don’t know if I was ever going to be. I had an image in my mind. The image is gone. I feel your love disappear. I wanted to talk, but you raised the ambient volume, sliding away, slowly building and rebuilding the chasm. It’s the furthest I’ve ever felt from you. I know you don’t want me around anymore, if you ever did. I’ve avoided that admission, omitting it from my thoughts until I cannot anymore. You don’t need a reason. I should never have been born. I will not obsess, not outwardly anyway. You only took from me the only thing I thought I ever knew. I was never vulnerable before. I never wanted to be. I only wanted you to know me, more than anyone else ever had or will or could. I wanted you to take me fishing and camping and driving and then back home together. I wanted you to see past the superficiality that I can’t help but exhibit. I wanted to stare in your eyes until I saw where I came from. I still do. I want to believe I’m doing things the right way, in a way that would make you proud. But I had no assurance. I’m not sure if I will have another chance. Not like this one anyway. Extraneous factors shouldn’t affect my connections. I want no pretense, no pressure, nobody but you, Father. Maybe someday I won’t feel like this. Observation and idioms tell me that I get over it, that distance from family is an inevitable step in the journey. But this is my first time with the experience, and no matter how many people have told me, I can’t believe them. You are strong, you are wise, you are the reason. Imagining your reassurance is killing me, knowing I will never be on the other end again. You have left me behind, on my own, gone off to find someone else to comfort. You will forget about me. I won’t forget about you. I want you to die complete, so I won’t complicate this any further by inserting myself, knocking on your door. Free from implication, I will walk alone. I see you, ignoring anything outside of your ambition and ego and vices. My standards are too high now, passed down from you. Unaware of the relativity, I settle and you leave me behind. After you there is Nothing left for me. Nobody will compare. Nobody can. This lump in my throat will never disappear. I don’t want it to die. I love life, but I love it more with you. I need to know that you need me. I can help. I was your son before, and I can try again, but this time with no promises. The spotless mind, it is my only hope. I must forget so I can move on. I deluded myself into thinking we would be okay and we would be okay together. Our lives are no longer lined up, if they ever were. How much of the familiarity was in my head? My visions were optimistic, but they grew from love. I love you. Those words mean nothing when not returned, but I can’t help it. I love you. I love you. Dad, I love you.
[Editor’s note: The author forgives your impatience in a dream he once had. He understands the situation was tense before he arrived, and next time he will call ahead.]
[Author’s note: I intended to write a review of your Netflix thing, but I made the mistake of coming up with the article title first, and this prevented me from continuing, for any number of reasons. Oh yeah, it’s ‘Norm Macdonald Has A Show, L-O-L-O-L’.]