Chapter 124: Day 123

Day 123,

Look at that day count.  It’s a nice number.  One hundred twenty three.  One two three.  Looks more like you’re just counting than writing a real number when you put it to paper.  I find this inordinately amusing and endearing.

 

Got my dose of existential angst for the week when one of the children asked where stories come from after our morning reading.

Starting with perhaps too obvious an answer, I said that people write them.  Or sometimes one person tells the story and another writes it down.

But how do they know what to write?

Sometimes they’re writing down something that happened, whether they saw it themselves or heard it from someone else.  Like how I record events for the archives.  Other times they just imagine something and make up what happens, where it happens, and who all the characters are.  At times it’s even a combination of the two; writing about something that happened but making up the parts they don’t know for sure and adding or changing bits to make it more exciting and easier to remember.

So...  like lying?

No, not lying.  Well, not unless you’re trying to convince people that the made up parts really happened.  More like playing pretend but then recording the things that were pretended so they can be shared with others.

So how do you know which one is which?

Well, sometimes, the author - that’s the person who wrote down the story - will say.  And most of the time you can trust them.  Other than that, if a story contains things that don’t exist or couldn’t happen in the real world, then that’s a strong sign it’s pretend.  Also, if the story takes place in another world, that’s a pretty obvious sign.

But aren’t you from another world?

I guess that’s an exception.

And why should it be?

Because I remember being there.  And that’s different from the other stories from that world about other worlds by people that were only ever from that world.

How?

What do you mean “how?”

Do you remember being there or do you remember that you were there?

What’s the difference?

It’s a world of difference.

Is that clever wordplay or a terrible pun?

You tell me.

I think it’s inappropriate given the gravity of what you’re implying.

You know what else is inappropriate?

What?

Freezing up as you get in a spiraling mental conversation with yourself instead of answering a simple question from a child you’re supposed to be teaching?

You are reading story The Archivist’s Journal at novel35.com

I’m freezing up?

I froze up.

I’m a terrible teacher.

I’m not qualified for this.

I’m not even a real teacher.

Am I even real?

I’m breathing fast.  Sweating.  Check wrist.  Pulsing.

I’m panicking.

Are the kids picking up on it?

Am I scaring the kids?

I’m scaring myself.

At least, that’s something like how my train of  thought ended up going in response to that one question.  Fortunately, Cass picked up on it before the kids really did and interjected with her own answer to the question and changed the topic to get the class back on track.  Once that snapped me out of my spiral I was able to get back to functioning quickly enough and got through the rest of the school day without incident.

After the kids were all gone Cass, in a rare moment of showing genuine concern, asked what happened and if I was okay.  I said the question got me thinking about things I try to avoid thinking about.  That it led to other questions that imply awful things with no way of knowing if they’re actually true or not or what the real answers are.

She said maybe talking about things instead of just thinking about them would help.

I appreciated the obvious offer, and said so.  I didn’t see the point of talking about things that nothing can be done about and felt ridiculous for even having been bothered by them earlier, and didn’t say so.  I wanted to feel better and for her not to be burdened by me, so I told her I was.  I knew even as I chose what to say and what not to that it wasn’t a healthy path I was going down, but I stuck with it anyway.

She asked if this was going to keep being a problem every time a question like that gets asked.

I said now that it’s happened once I won’t be caught by surprise next time so I should be fine and hoped I wasn’t lying.

I probably was.  It’s not the first time something like this has happened.

Why?

Why do I keep doing things like this?  Not reaching out or accepting when others reach out to me.  Especially when I know what I should be doing.  I want to take those steps I’m not taking.  There’s no reason not to.  I’m not afraid of it.  I know they care about me enough that they wouldn’t judge me or feel burdened.  Am I too lazy?  Maybe, but something about that doesn’t quite ring true either.

I.

Just.

Can’t.

Self-awareness of flaws is not the same as the ability to fix them.  Nor is the desire to.  Nor is the knowledge of how.

So what is?

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