The third part in the series; a collection of journals entries following the death of Jordan Fuentes

“Immanency”

[August 15]

I have belabored the vicissitudes of months since his passing, and my concerns at first related solely to the welfare of his immediate families – those to whom the manifestations of love appear most boldly. Yet fruitless are these tasks, as I, within my self-conflictions came to understand. As such, one cannot make dissention as a child’s bet, that of fancy’s immaturity. No, I must attribute it its full and obvious complexions. Yet so doing, I am capitulated to the needs of self-oppression. For it is that I cannot abide these things daily, neither can I their substances defer for the progress of longevity. There is no direction to which its repercussions are greeted with pleasantry, least indifference, were such a possibility. I must instead, assimilate the greater acts of survival about me
with my inordinate capacities for suffering; such things so well suppressed within my
emotional strongholds, there is no latitude for leniency. And so, these bearings kept, as so many things of lesser worth, might well endure and dissipate were it not for my correspondences – these things that rival jealousy and envy with the collaborated vengeances of loneliness. It is true, I often seek solitude as means of pacification of myself; yet I am not a soul that lives abidingly alone. Most awful a thing, here deciding, is that nature to which the elements of life are denoted – that of the ambiguity of blame. Who is my heart to incarcerate for wrong-doing? Who is it that has transgressed for shame to be their only ally? There is no thing, no person attributable to the causes of my deep depressions. I retire then my words, save those in memory of he for all these intangibles made fame. For to the ends when those works, in their might and glory, are completed, I shall be dissatisfied with life, with its creatures, with its philosophies, yet most of all, with its immortal virtues, disallowed the accolade of truncation.

[August 21]

I am, it seems, two worlds separated. From one, comes the consolation of a prosperity
– the truth of rewards manifestable, spread like green expanse across the plains that
develop swift before me. From the next, comes unfettered consternation, that Achillean demise that sees itself to some unwanted success. I am cursed to own these both as my characters in life, and yet their substances, as I relieve myself with indefinitely, are made of some beneficial creature. My stances are unreliable, and often do I sway from my arguments under the deceitful countenance of apprehension. Thus, I inquire of myself the dreadful questions doctors are leery to approach. I have been inclined to rest myself in solitude, deriving of the purposes by which I said so many things to him. I am plagued with the diametrically conflicting entities of life and love – what burdens did I have, might make me speak untruthfully? And thus, would I examine my consciences, unstringing the smallest of details for my own comforts? I cannot say there was profit in this torment, for least of all my successes would be the true success of this. Were I to establish, as in part my soul was desiring of, a means and motivation for an action of mine that undeniably pierced him, to damage that was not permanent, but reparable – this would leave me no great comfort. I cannot digress to those things, were they to exist, and
establish my sorrow and apology, for he is no longer with me. I would instead, be tortured to find a self-pity that builds on itself without ceasing, and in that, would seek the ultimate of punishments from God. My spirit, as it has been guided, might seek out the institution of religion for sanctuary. Yet, this too I fear – for of what selfishness am I made, that I would seek the favorite hand of God only to my own ends? I concern myself with this often, though I do not strike completely this possibility, for often have I considered it, even before my love. I am formed of such a twisted congress of things I cannot possibly discern to which part I am more faithful, nor which part is more deserving of my fidelity. I shall decide upon this later, for as now, my attention rests on him, this, the anniversary’s eve on which he first knew salvation.

[September 4]

A month has passed since he has left me, and my mind took up a stranger dream than ever it has before. I allowed myself to sleep, under the comforts of a hollow prayer (that to which, even now, seems absent of true worth) and the placebo that was to be his gift – the canine form that sprawled across my bedspread like a lion in his den. I did not give myself reminders of him, only in understanding that it would make my living more arduous, more taskful than was healthy. It was each and every day I remembered him, regardless of the token symbols of his life and love before. And I prayed often to see him in some strange, amorphous form – such as only angels can accomplish. In truth, I wished to see his human beauty – for I only knew him by the perspectives of two, antiquated pictures. Yet, he had been delivered of that plague – that which brought him life eternal, and that which likewise condemned me somehow to search for understanding. Yet in any form I was obliging, if my humble form is apt to speak those words, and I wished interminably to know him as I was never given opportunity.

It was just a night ago, that I dreamed a thing so horrible to imagine, I could not, nor would not, cogitate upon its meaning. I would not decipher it – it was too horrendous a thing for me to revive in fruitless analyses. I speak of it here only briefly, as it haunted me so greatly – it was a simple scene that I, by no subconscious want solicited, saw in only vague proportions. I envisioned a room, sparse and unsightly. Its walls were of a brownish hue that I had not remembered seeing in the times of my existence. It was a mourning color, a pigment that knew my intrinsic fears and gave no consolation, but was unanimously apologetic. I was afraid to enter this room, though at first doing so, I did not have any reason as to why. Inside, there sat a few old men, upon several tattered, folding chairs.
There were several others there beside them, but they appeared to be so long forlorn, one entering the room and needing their assistances would not seek their counsel, or their aid. To the right, separated only minimally from the outset of the wailing wall, there was a narrow bench, though it occurred at first sight, its purpose was not for sitting, but for laying. And these things coalesced in the span of seconds in my mind, as I was preoccupied with something far more substantial. I was truly afraid – fearful that some transgression had left a part of me broken, and irreparable. Yet it did not stop me; I did not pause to reflect upon my angst. I instead was hurried, by my own inclinations, to quickly carry my brother’s body in and lay it gently on the narrow bench between the mournful barrier and the emotionless panel of men. My focus was only on my brother, yet my glances swept
quickly and often around the room, most often intent on the door from which I entered. I was often left alone, to watch him. I never saw his face, not least as I remember, and his quietness and stillness wrenched me painfully. I wished for some great intercession – for the sun to pierce through inhuman walls, to pale the gloom that wretchedly dressed us. Yet there was no such relief. And my nightmare continued on in this desperation. Occasionally, my mother or my father would visit us, and in panic, leave again. I would never know the purpose in anything accomplished. I did not know any but one thing – my brother would die. I waited and suffered the constancy of sadness until his eyes closed shut, and his grip around my hand fell loose.