I've been drifting in a strange place. I actually looked over at my bed yesterday because of a quick wonder if I'd find my body there. That's what it felt like. And through the rest of the day I went about pinpointing incidents that verified I was really here and really alive, and not post-mortem imagining it out of habit.

Still no new laptop, but likely soon. My laptop might cut out at anytime now, and I'm trying to type with the thing balanced and wobbly on top a fan. I wonder if I'd be happy with my last post being my last one ever, and I think I am. Even though I'll likely keep typing as long as I can, I think I've said everything I need to.

I have a plan for my next attempt, and it's not based on 2-month cycles and doesn't involve a bike and is tied to nature, and I'll likely take a pass on the first window of opportunity since it's coming very suddenly. I expect at least 2 or 3 opportunities over the course of the summer. Two or three opportunities to get me to the autumn where I'll likely find myself still alive. :p fucker.

I'm still reading The Lovely Bones, but I'm simultaneously reading Sophie's World, which is just fabulous. Both books centered on 14-year-old girls, although Sophie turns 15 in hers. Both books are establishing my mindset these days.

The gimmick in Lovely Bones is just fascinating me. The girl is dead but she is in a position to reflect on how life continues after her, but she's also telling the story of her whole life and the lives around her and things she wouldn't know if she were alive because now that she's dead, she has more access or insight into other people's lives.

It's a variation of the cliche of seeing one's life flash before one's eyes when they face death. And even though there's a portrayal of "heaven" involved, it's not a hardwired heaven. It's suggested that her heaven is her own creation, and it's there because she herself is wondering about the vacuum created by her absence. It doesn't have to be that way. She chose it.

But it's the stories. What are our lives if not stories? She's telling her story and that's what's so compelling about the book, imagining that she may have been a real person, it could've been a real person. We live our lives and then we die, but what if we haven't left our stories? And in this book are the stories of a fictional life, but it should be all of us, we all should leave our stories, if we want to.

My father doesn't. His story will be forgotten. No one will care. Sad, but it's his choice. I have this blog. No one may care, but I wrote it for anyone who might wonder about the full life of a fictional 14-year-old who was raped and murdered, or a lost and wandering soul-searcher who knew that his life must end in a suicide or it wouldn't have been worth living.