To the monster in my closet

To. The monster in my closet

I don’t exist.

Not in a metaphorical or rhetorical way. I really don’t. You wouldn’t see me, not even if I was standing right in front of your face. I certainly wouldn’t see you. I could be a ghost, a tornado, or a piece of stale bread you lost somewhere in your house years ago. (No, I don’t have a random piece of bread in my bedroom, at least as far as I’m aware. I hope.) You wouldn’t care. It wouldn’t make a single difference at all for you.

…

… Actually, I take that back. You’d care if I was knocking on your doorstep as a tornado. That would surely be an unforgettable interaction of a lifetime.

So, here I am, knocking on your doorstep. Hoping you would answer by now. Hoping. Still hoping… No? Fine. I’ll find someone else. But before that, just know that you left me wandering for a year, you know. A full year of my life was lost because of you. (And her, I’d have to give her that credit as well.) And here you are, locking yourself behind that stupid door for… what? Several years now. I know I hardcore ignored you as you ignored me for the first year, but still? Come on, man, you really shouldn’t hold a grudge for that long. So just know, here I am, and here I will be, for as long as I can remember that you’re still hiding behind that door.

But before that, I have an honest confession I have to make. I exist. I know this contradicts everything I just said before, but hear me out. I do. I love folding tiny paper cranes, something I started about a year ago. I have thousands of them; something I’d confirm if I’ll ever bother to count. I also stopped reading. I stopped writing as well. Haven’t opened my notebooks in years. I got the most boring, most standard Korean haircut. It suits me. (I think.) The only thing special about it’s that I cut it myself. Apparently it was time I figured out hair salons were far too expensive for me to indulge. And I’ve started cursing. Exclusively in English, I might add. Something you would have been appalled by. I don’t remember Pokemon anymore, and I quit team sports. I joined the play. My grades went kaboom in a colorful splatter of gore. I can’t seem to tap into the light, effortless humor you possessed, although you seemed unaware of it at the time. And so, due to the overwhelming evidence contradicting my first claim: I am real. I exist. Wow. Yay. Clap. Clap now. Please clap.

I also lost you years ago, because of some stupid incident that blew up in my face. After that the first and only thing I did was ignore you. Then ignore you. Then ignore you again. Pretend you never existed. But now I’m finding bits and pieces of you in places I last expect. And then I lose you again because of course I can’t remember anything for this stupid essay I’m writing for you right now. Funny how the universe works.

I still suck at lying. My room looks far worse than yours, which is saying something. We still share some of our friends, and I get glances of you from them as well. You seem like a fun person. Sometimes terrible, stuffy, and pretentious. Sometimes just weird, and I respect that, and I will constantly be trying to one-up you on that one. Do I want you back? I don’t know. I think it’ll suck to deal with a broody, stuck-up, know-it-all brat like you. Am I less of those things? I hope. But do I think the world would be a more interesting place if you were here in my stead? Quite frankly, yes. So, yeah. Another confession: I’ve been acting like you these days. Of course, I know I’m not you and I’ll never be. But I’d appreciate it a lot if you came out to help. Just open the door. I have so much I want to say to you. I’ll bet my wallet you have a truckload of information I could listen to. I know you might not even be there anymore. I know you might not be who I expected you to be. But I do miss you sometimes. A lot more than I care to admit. I guess try to knock back or something if you really insist on keeping the door shut.

So if you ever bother to respond, I want your thoughts on this kinda thing. I’m trying this for the first time. Basically writing a letter to you. Am I a nematode for not thinking of this faster? Arguably. Do I think this is going to work? No. Do I even think you’ll read it? No, I don’t dance with delusions. Then why am I doing this? Because I’m a nematode with a koala-esque brain. And also because I’ll stop existing. Not that I don’t. I do. Or, I think, at least. But I know I’m one screw-up-explosion away from nonexistence. Or a couple quadrillion moments of just existing. So, yeah. Thanks for reading my sloppy effort of a photograph taken in the most convoluted and indirect means possible.

From [ ].

To the reader:

This essay was originally supposed to be me addressing my past self, and my changing identity as time passed. There was an incident in 7th grade that kind of (involuntarily) changed who I was, and although I won’t specify what happened because it would be an overly long and self-centered story, know that I’m talking to who I used to be before. Although this is what I originally intended to write about, I’d much rather appreciate it if the reader would interpret this freely.