He who sees, but is not seen

The day did not end any better than it started, but at least no one died (that I know personally) and I am in good health.

I weighed myself again today. While I am visibally losing weight, and yet the needle isn’t moving. I am really frustrated about this. I try to say ‘oh that’s just muscle’ but some sinister voice from the deep recesses of my closet says ‘nooooo it’s noooooot’

I’ve been out of bed for three hours and already it’s one of those days where I just want to close my eyes and wait for it to finish.

tl;dr: I’m having a bad day.

Can’t really escape. Can’t really change. All you can do is approach problems from a different angle. Different line of thinking.

And just keep trying.

I STILL can’t find my captain’s log. I need it.

I was not in a good mood to begin with, stemming partly from my father, partly from my own fucking head. But that’s another story entirely.

I decided I hadn’t practiced ninjutsu in a while. I donned my gi; it was heavy and I hadn’t worn it in a while. It was like slipping into shedded skin. I put on some tennis shoes (I ACTUALLY OWN A PAIR?), and in my weapons bag tucked away two daito, a bokken, and my shinai. My photo-bag slung over my shoulder, I headed off to Skyview.

I used their tennis courts. The moves inherent to ninjutsu are naturally calming and centering. As I moved out there, my feet sliding noiselessly on the slick tarmac of the courts, I had time to think. A lot. I don’t like a lot of the things I thought, but having them out there was a lot better than letting them bottle up.

An hour later, I decide to pack it up and head home and that’s when the interesting part starts.

I’m walking across the parking lot in the direction of home, looking at a picture Trinity had sent me, when someone driving by in an SUV shouts (clearly at me) ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?’ I look over and see your average high school senior asshole, head sticking out of some black Forester. He lobs a roll of toilet paper into the air, while the driver fires a cap gun out of the moon roof. ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING YOU WIMP PIECE OF SHIT?’ he continues. I ignore him, keep walking, and they keep driving. I figure they were done, but I guess they were just looking for a place to turn around.

They pull into Al-Ki and pull a squealing yooie, racing back in my direction. They came to a halt across from me, 20 or so yards down the parking lot, and the passenger gets out, shouting random obscenities at me. At this point, I understood completely confrontation was inevitable, and I felt oddly prepared.

‘YOU CUNT’ he shouted as he approached me. I knew exactly what he was going to do. He was leaning slightly forward and his arms were in front of him. He was going to reach up and shove me backwards by the shoulders, a typical move by his type. I dropped my weapons bag.

And he did. He was quick, too, his hands were on my shoulders. But my hands were on his, and I buckled his elbows with mine and pulled him inwards, kneeing him in the gut. Hard. As he sunk downwards, I second-knuckle struck just above his adam’s apple. He started coughing.

I had forgotten about his friend, who had managed to circle around behind me. I spun to face him, and he was a lot closer than I thought he’d be. Powerhouse hook to my head, which I BARELY avoided (took a graze to the temple). He was fast, like a boxer. I backed up and almost tripped over the weapon bag I had dropped. I stepped over it, then with my right toe kicked it up into my hand and swung it.

This part scares me. The amount of blunt rage, the anger, the lack of style, finesse. The openness of my strike. I wasn’t just defending myself anymore.

The bag and all of it’s contents caught him in the ribs, and I could HEAR the wind get knocked out of him. At this point, my face was probably a mask of anger and hatred. Every negative emotion I have ever felt welled up inside me. Flashes of memories and feeling white-hot in my head. I kicked him in the knee and he fell.

The first guy had recovered at this point, and jumped on my back trying to bring me down. I reached back, grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him over me, tossing him onto his friend.

And then I ran.

I’m exhausted. My hands are shaking and I’m crying as the adrenaline is wearing off. What did I do? I’m a good person. I am not a demon. Why did I behave like one? Why tonight of all nights?

First those drunk pricks at the movie theatre, then those guys a few weeks ago in the parking lot, and now this. Fuck. I should just start staying home.

I think…

Well, it doesn’t really matter.

I can’t find my captain’s log.

Because if I pretended I didn’t know, she wouldn’t either.

It was the same reason my hands felt like I was wearing mittens and my tongue was swollen in my throat.

I feel so… dumb. Like some kind of preschooler. Like all I want to do is impress you, so I draw you pictures of blue dinosaurs and houses in crayon with a smiling sun, and show them to you with a smile on my face. And you smile back, knowingly.

I feel so… stupid. Like a ham-handed oaf, who in efforts not to screw up, screws up. Trips over his own feet… takes an hour and a half to close.

I wish you knew what you did to me :x

My Captain’s Log exists not as an extension of this, but as a counter-part.

Everything I’ve ever been afraid to say here goes in there. Every dark thought, every last fear, desire, wish. My paranoia… it’s all in there, where I can lock it away.

It’s in there, where I can close the covers and shut it off.

I don’t know what to say.

Except to throw things at windows and flip over chairs. To put my foot through the TV and smash plates against walls.

I want to make a  mess.

FUCK.

What were you expecting?