Jay M. Petrequin

Labyrinth

One point holds guilt.
One point holds fear.
One point holds pain.
One point holds regret.

Everything I do is the worst thing I possibly could be doing; to me, at least. To me, for me, about me, around me. Around. Always around.

I write these stories; always big, always full of people. People, characters, whatever you feel like it's politically correct to call them. I create these worlds, purposefully stuff them full of as much as I can possibly muster. Then, once I've started writing, drawing, whatever it is; I stop. I stop having the time, I stop having the effort needed to keep the hearts beating. And then the feeling comes.

A reflection on how many times I have teared up today: Once during journalism class, and I was not consciously aware of the reason why. Once during the space between classes, as my loved one was preoccupied. I was glad she didn't see. Once during Spanish class. One may assume that these tears were due to our teacher, yelling at us in panicked tones about how we had all failed a test. One might be interested to know how easy he is to tune out. Once as I sat in the cafeteria, making an attempt at cooking sentences on a pan of paper. Overcooked.

One point holds guilt.
One point holds fear.
One point holds pain.
One point holds regret.

I started reading very young; two, maybe, if that lies within the spectrum of “young.” My mother always loved – and still loves – to brag about little me, sitting in a shopping cart and reading the aisle signs out loud. Since then, I've been able to read things as if they were all supermarket signs. Give me anything, and I can find it's bread, it's cereal, it's peanut butter and jelly. So imagine my reaction upon seeing a text in which the only groceries I could find came bearing names I could not seem to understand. Would you not, too, feel fear?

A reflection on how many times I have felt lost in my Composition Theory class: Once on the first day, as the teacher slouched so low in her seat that, at first, I didn't even see her. Was she decompressing? Or was she lurking? I still do not know for sure. Once on Monday, where every question I posed, all carefully constructed and slaved over with as much concentration and ingenuity as I could muster, was shot down by the lurker/ decompressor, from her sniper's roost at the head of the table. There was nobody else to whom she was so viscous. I wondered just how large was the bounty on my head. Once tomorrow. Once each day after that.

One point holds guilt.
One point holds fear.
One point holds pain.
One point holds regret.

What's really annoying – what has been, and will continue to be, really annoying – is not the pain itself. Rather, it's the extent to which I hold onto that pain. The extent to which it holds on to me.

Does it make me a monster if I still get furious at a single event that hurt me months ago? I've finally managed to do away with the ones over a year old, if that helps. Maybe it's a delayed reaction thing, like one of those stories where someone develops brain damage as the result of a car accident from decades prior. Maybe my residuals involve me feeling as if I've been hit by a car. Does it make me a monster that there are some people who it still hurts me to think about?Does it make me a monster if I still think about specific things said in specific cars? I wasn't hit by one, but I suppose it could be said that I was hit within one.

A reflection on how many times I've hurt myself with my own words: Once whenever I hold them back. The true ones, anyway. Nothing does the mind good if the mind is not spoken. Once every time I have confided in someone I should not have confided in. If you give intimate pieces of yourself to enough people, sooner or later they'll start getting together and trading them, like they're Pokemon cards on a playground. Once for each time I've told myself I wasn't good enough. Doesn't really matter for what, I suppose; someone, something, some whatever. It's more of an overall quality thing, I guess. For optimal pain, I tell myself I'm not good enough for the very things I've created. Not good enough for myself. Once, probably, for writing this. But we'll have to wait and see how I feel in the morning for that one.

One point holds guilt.
One point holds fear.
One point holds pain.
One point holds regret.

There are two kinds of regret. One is the kind that lasts, and takes ages to hack through. The other is the fast-acting, short-term kind. Hits hard, burns a little, goes away. I've had more of this kind.

Now, here's the thing. Each time I spend a night regretting not talking in class more that day, or not buying that cool shirt in red instead of brown, something that sounds trivial to type, sure, it sucks. Feels bad. But I also am reminded of how many of my regrets are of this kind. Regrets can remind you how lucky you are, I guess.

A reflection on how many times I have to tell myself “you're okay” every day in order to keep believing it: Once in slow, stretching form – sometimes yawned – as I pull myself by my hair out of bed in the morning. Once as I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to decide if I have hidden well enough the inevitable fact that I am falling apart. How's the glue holding up? Should I wrap myself in caution tape? Pin a sign to my head? “Warning: unstable boy, high risk of implosion.” Once as I enter campus, pushing through thoughts of all the terrible encounters that could occur. All of the cars, waiting hungrily in the underbrush. Once when, at some point in the day, everything begins to feel like too much. I usually don't know when it will come, but hey, isn't that the fun of the whole thing? Once fewer than yesterday. Once fewer that the week before that. 

One point holds guilt.
One point holds fear.
One point holds pain.
One point holds regret.

The center holds me. Grounds me. I find my way in, and I find my way out.

I find my way in, and I find my way out. 

 


Jay M. Petrequin writes constantly, so much so that he expects a new level of carpel tunnel syndrome to be named after him one day. Jay is a SUNY Postdam Junior majoring in creative writing, and will be the editor-in-chief for the school's newspaper, The Racquette, this coming fall. Jay also works for HeyPoorPlayer.com, writing and talking about video games. He has, on occasion, been known to take some time to sleep.