It can only be so hard to throw your whole self into the ocean. That’s the sentence I kept imbuing into me. I even wrote it on a little index card. There is a little index card in my pocket that says “It can only be so hard to throw your whole self into the ocean,” or at least the closest approximation my tear-filled eyes and shaking hands could provide. The syntax is probably a little bit different, and I’m probably the only one who can read the words. I know I am the only one who can understand them. I can only hope that they don’t make it too far. I know I won’t. Perhaps these words will be what they use to remember me. A tombstone engraving? No, I won’t have a tombstone. I want my bones to be turned into glue and used to create something far more beautiful than I have ever been. In a way, it will be the form I have always wanted, creating herself, albeit far removed from my conscious existence. In my ghostly state, if I am cursed with one, I will live inside this form, occasionally manipulating the wind to blow around whatever limbs there may be, or telling whatever animal with a greater connection to spirits than humans that my form is a place where they cannot be harmed, where they cannot be sad, where all of the sadness has been taken and placed somewhere that nobody will ever see. I will use whatever power I am given to the fullest extent to make sure my form is as close as possible to being the evolution of me, the version of me that cannot cry or think bad thoughts. I want her to be beautiful and all-knowing. I’m not sure who will build this new form from my old parts, but I can only hope their vision exceeds mine. Not very hard. I’m standing on a dock now. I can’t remember how I got here. I can’t remember where I am. All I know is the wood I stand on and the ocean in front of me. My depth perception is non-existent. I feel like I’m watching my own POV on a computer screen. This is not true, as I am really there. I am violently reminded every waking second that everything around me is real. Everything inside of me might even be real. Every thought, every idea, every concept, every vision, every dream. Somewhere, in some reality, others can see them, understand them, maybe even enjoy them. But it can’t happen here. I can’t access that here, or anywhere I could possibly go. I can’t do anything to make what I see real. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe everybody around me would hate it and do whatever was in their power to destroy it. To destroy me. What the fuck does that even mean? I’m already destroyed. I was born destroyed. I’ve stopped making sense; this always happens when I talk a lot. I talk too much. I’m still standing on this filthy dock in front of this far-too-green ocean. I keep seeing plastic float by. I think about whoever put that there. We are both particles in an hourglass. Soon I will see the other end. I’m taking a step forward. My body doesn’t remember how to do that, so I almost trip, but it figures itself out. I take another step. This one is less hard. Everything smells like salt right now, and there’s sand in my eyes. I take a third, fourth, fifth, maybe even sixth step. I don’t bother counting. That’s stupid. I stop for a little bit. The ocean is much closer to me. I could crouch down and pick up whatever bit of trash passes me by next, and maybe that would give me a better sense of my place in the world. Perhaps, if enough was collected, this trash could be repurposed into art. An almost perfect way to construct the model that represents me. I really hope that’s what they do. I’m sitting down now. My clothes are wet; I don’t care. It won’t really matter. Candy consumes the body hair on my appendages, rapidly so. So much candy. More than I’ve ever seen. Dripping and flowing down my arms, following the veins. Everything is melting. Is this what it feels like for everyone? My senses are starting to leave me. I guess I’ve abused them enough. The ocean is below me, quietly roaring, but I can’t join her. She is greedy, and my bones will be gone. Those will be needed, you know. I have to stay here. I can’t do anything but stay here. I remember the sentence. I was completely wrong. I could never let the ocean take me. I need to be preserved. Somehow, I muster the strength to pull out the little index card and drop it into the water beneath me. The tide brushes it far away from where I lie. That part of me finally died, as are  more and more parts. I can’t say this is entirely bad. I will be gone, but at the very least, not forgotten. Farewell.