Imported Poems

Christine faded in and out of consciousness, exploring the infinite possibilities that existed within the fantasy, but found none as satisfying as her first vision. Odd, she thought, still somewhat delirious from her daydream, the mind of man is not so different from God’s. Within it exists indeterminate opportunities, and yet I - I chose only one. One timeline, one sequence of events, one plot, one character per person, not multiple variations ala Quantum Physics. Not the manifold realities, nor even the redundancies within my own story. There is but a single Dorian, though Dorian exists as Drew and Drew as Dorian in their alternate universes - still, they remain two separate people.
Shooting up in bed, Christine grabbed her spiral notebook and pen from the bedside table, and began to write:

DECEMBER 25, 2006
ONE FLEW OVER THE MADHOUSE, OR GIRL REALLY INTERRUPTED, VERSION 1.0
There is something to the Anthropomorphic Principle for the existence of God, although I’m not sure it is so much a proof as a reasoning from the consequent to the antecedent. The Bible says God created us in His image, but it also reasons that our image reflects the image of God - this is what I mean by “arguing from the consequent to the antecedent”. Einstein agrees that God does not roll the dice, and he was a scientific theist, but now I’m bordering on Teleology and Intelligent Design.
I’m here because I tried to kill myself, but I don’t know exactly how anyone found out about it. I don’t think I called anyone; I think someone called me and I must have told them, but I don’t remember. It’s all a blur if you want to know the truth. I have a vague recollection of getting into an ambulance, and of waking up in the hospital with bloody face and a mad urge to use the bathroom, and of telling the doctors I wanted to come here, NOT there, and of riding here from the hospital, but otherwise - nothing.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve known I’m different (the grammatical construct of that sentence is mind-boggling). The other kids knew it too, and used to beat me mercilessly and steal my shoes or push me off my bike. My only friend, Dina, and I played dolls together - although sometimes her older brother would play with me - but otherwise I was left alone to my thoughts. Most of those solitary hours I spent reading books - The Raven was my favorite piece in first grade - or writing them. I was fascinated by vampires - I can’t tell you how many crude, self-illustrated, illegible stories I produced featuring Dracula as the main character. It was silly, but that’s how I lived - inside my own world.
Not much has changed. I am still harassed and thrashed by bullies, but these are bosses or coworkers whose ambition has targeted me for elimination. And just like I forgave all those children for physically and mentally abusing me, I have forgiven them. I figured that all this forgiveness multiplied over time, all these un-avenged injustices I suffered, might please God, and thus secure for me (and I use that term loosely) some small portion in life - a faithful and loving husband or a satisfying career - but I was wrong. I have no husband, no boyfriend - you know I haven’t been touched in two years? And as far as a career is concerned - my employment record reads like a Shakespearean tragedy.
I have a family that loves me (and I love them) but they also are a source of torment because I am not by design nor can I ever be through artifice the person they need or want for me to be. And I wonder if its even possible for anyone to love what they don’t understand, and this question also tortures me.
Sometimes I think about dousing myself with gasoline and setting myself on fire outside the White House, or robbing a store with a water pistol. I would plead guilty to the crime, of course, and when asked by the judge if I had anything to say for myself, I would tell him that if he lets me go I plan on committing more dangerous, heinous crimes and so he should lock me away forever. I imagine my words might shock him, and he might ask me why I desired it, to which I would reply “Because I am a failure, and prison is the haven for all failures. You think my offense is slight compared to murder and rape, but I tell you that I am a greater criminal than murderers and rapists. They never had a chance while I, possessing both a high IQ and a degree, have accomplished nothing. I am perhaps the greatest failure of all.”
I know I’m grandstanding, but it is only a dream, and like all dreams, it fades away in the light. Still, it is all I have - these dreams of mine. Sometimes I grow so tired of reality, that I wish I would depart one day on some great adventure inside my head, and never return. It wouldn’t matter to me if I were in an institution being spoon fed mashed peas or on the street, because I would be happy. I would be loved.
I suppose the truth of my situation begs the question - why bother? Why be nice? Why forgive? Why behave altruistically and spiritually in an ignoble world, born without honor? I guess I believe in doing the right thing regardless of the consequences, even death, for two reasons: 1) It feels good 2) I have faith that whether here now or as later as the other side of life, there will be recompense. I want to ensure I’m paid in pleasure, not suffering.

Christine finished scrawling on the page, then returned notebook and pen to her bedside table before lying back down on the bed. Folding her hands beneath her head, she closed her eyes and imagined Tamma standing in the graveyard, shrieking up at the sky. Why had Dorian saved her? Certainly out of love for Regina - because he could not risk losing her again - but did he love Tamma? Christine searched Dorian for the answer - yes. Yes he did love her, because he could see into her heart and saw there the same beauty he loved in Regina, but why did he flee? The biological threat to humanity was a convenient pretense to avoid the wrath that awaited him when Tamma awoke - yes, she would be angry, very, very angry. She denied him but he had forced himself on her - a form of spiritual rape perhaps? No - rape was too fierce a word, though their souls were now enmeshed forever - married., in fact. No, Dorian was gentle in love - a craven. Though he was the greatest creature in all the universes in the art of war, in the art of love he was the greatest coward.
Christine smiled delightfully to herself.
“Christine?” a voice said. A nurse stood at her door.
“Yes?”
“Your parents are here. Pack your things.”
A leap of joy surged through her body. She was going home - but to what? Oh, who cares? she thought to herself, gathering her clothes together on her bed. My life is dismal, that’s true, but maybe it’s necessary. Maybe if I were happy, I wouldn’t dream, and if I didn’t dream, I wouldn’t write, and if I didn’t write, Jules would not exist, nor Ana, nor Nate, nor Dorian or Tamma, Regina or Tristan, and isn’t that what matters? I am nothing, and in a hundred years will be dead, but they will live on forever, immortalized in the pages of a book, even if that book is nothing more than scraps handed down from generation to generation. In the end, they make a difference, not me and not my happiness. And really, if I were given the chance by God to be made happy at the expense of my mind and my dreams, I would not trade them. I would not, knowing what I know now, choose to know less, and dreaming what I do, choose to never dream.