I found this notebook. It feels weird to be writing again. I was never good at it. At least this isn’t a pencil. I fucking hated writing with pencils. No, this is one of those gel pens, the fancy kind that are like fourteen bucks each.
I thought about calling this the actual date, but I can’t remember what it is. Calendars aren’t much help either. Most people don’t even use them anymore, kept their shit on their phones. Doesn’t do much good now, does it? Decided to call it day one, because, you know, each day is the start of your journey, or some shit like that. I don’t remember anymore.
Heard a long time ago that writing was a way to keep the voices out, keep yourself sane. Don’t know if that’s true. Better than drawing. Never could draw.
Keep having to wipe the gray stuff off of me. It starts to sting if you let it lay on you too long.
God damn it, I need to write down what happened, don’t I?
My name is Ira. I was a college student. Going after a worthless degree, you know how it is. Okay, you might not know, but still, it should be a universal concept or some shit like that. The plight of the common man.
It’s hard keeping the thoughts going. I know this place is safe, for now, but you can never be absolutely sure. If the walls start bleeding I’m back onto the streets.
What are memories? Why do they matter? I can’t guarantee that tomorrow won’t be yesterday, anyway. Hell, back a couple of weeks ago I lived the same day four or five times. It’s all subjective.
Besides, how do you explain the impossible?
My name is Carson Ira Cotterill.
I lived past the end of the world.