Firstly, I am the only one allowed to refer to them in this manner. I am much more than willing to glare, shout, cover my ears, eyes and refuse to speak to whomever is bold enough to deny their existences. While I've my growing array of companions and mentors that I myself create and admire, there are others; the originals to some extent.
I have been mourning over the death of my dearest, dearest L for around 3 years. The death of lovely Dorian was also a bit of shock to me. But, L has always had a special place in my heart.
I'm not sure if it's normal to not feel ashamed while admitting my love for characters from mangas, books, my imagination. They just manage to reach a point of perfection that no human can ever acquire. My wounds were slowly healing. I was eventually able to think about L without having tears well in my eyes. The degree of my denial started to decrease. But then, I saw a treasure peacefully resting upon Mr. Gordon's desk. Death Note: volume 1. Upon asking to take it home, permission was granted and my wounds were pried open once more. For months last year, I tried to find out the mangaka's address in order to send her a hate note, or anything that would be able to convey the amount of pain that she forced me to endure by killing L. And, as of yesterday, I found myself having to fight that urge. To try to conquer my love.
I've always had a bit of an imagination. Though my daydreaming has become much more intensified over the past few years, it's always found ways to weasel its way into my life, creating some sort of social boundary for me. I used to have an imaginary friend, who's name I cannot remember. She left me. She said that she was going on a trip to Paris and she never came back. I wanted her to, but some part of brain was screaming, 'NO! She's not coming back! Stop lying to yourself!'. It is that voice that taunts me daily, 'He's dead, stop pretending that your L will be revived', 'Dorian Grey was asking for it...'.
So, of course, I fight back. I imagine even more and drown my rationality in my disregard for reality. Currently, L is happily living in Russia. He enjoys his quite and wintry surroundings and often sits by a fogged window, sipping sweet tea and eating strawberry shortcake, gazing out his window and into the large clouds above. L is happy, and at piece. Dorian never tried to destroy the painting. He bought a nice house in London with easy access to the theater. He's living alone but often visits Basil (whom he never truly killed) secretly in the night. Indulging himself in the relationship that Wilde was not allowed to let them have. My cat roams the school building. Elegantly hopping in the desk, purring. Within a moment, the room will be silent and empty, calming me down. Or, maybe, I've turned everybody in the unsettling and loud classroom into variables or cats or animate sheets of paper.
Combating rationality with imagination is fun, though not in the least bit socially beneficial. But if I have Emmie and my other, fictional friends, then who cares? If I end up being social inept, then I'll just become a computer programmer. Which is convenient for I love computers as much as I do cats.
I apologize for the extremely low quality of this post.
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