Immortality won’t solve anything

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I didn’t set out to have a kind of guiding principle or moral to my ongoing story “The Diaries of Netovicius the Vampire,” but it wasn’t long before it had one.

The characters, vampires, are immortal, but with that immortality there doesn’t come much of an advantage, in terms of getting over their baggage. If anything, perhaps it gives them too much time for procrastination.

Neto, after all, reaches almost the ripe old (or is it young?) age of 1000 when he starts to really do the work of coming to terms with, the loss of those close to him, and his own neurodivergence, seemingly as a kind of manic-depressive with fluid art-manifestation powers as it were.

Interestingly I became aware that I might be on the autism spectrum, at the same time as I was endowing Neto with certain attributes (overstimulation) that I shared.

These fuckheads nowadays, these billionaires and their feudal lords, the rich who can’t seem to be rich enough, what is their deal anyway?

I endowed the mortals in a cult called “The Red Umbrella Society” who are mainly made up of the ultra-rich seeking the immortality they’ve found the vampires to possess.

Because, they must think, why not? Most of us can’t really seem to unfuck ourselves (last swear I promise) so why wouldn’t more time benefit us, ultimately? A trip to Mars, perhaps give us some perspective, haha?

But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that time, does not heal all wounds. It takes the combination of time plus effort, and the right effort at that.

If you’ve had enough therapy like me, you can register that some kinds of talk therapy can even ultimately be counterproductive. You can end up grooving and regrooving a certain belief or narrative. At a certain point, you have to try to process, adjust, and move on. It’s painful, because change is painful, and change is scary, it’s destabilizing, you almost don’t recognize yourself when its happening.

My mother (for it always come back to them doesn’t it?) couldn’t take the leap of taking medication for her depressive like symptoms. Even though they seemed to help she “didn’t feel like herself.” My father “understood” and didn’t push.

Our minds, perhaps our very souls, resist change. Only a few of the brave little fishies, took their little mishapen flippers and made it to the land, to squabble for oxygen. The rest, well…we’re fish ain’t we?!

I think of a cartoon I wish I could draw of a butterfly talking to a catterpillar and going “Sure, sure, change is good, and I guess it’s better, but I just don’t feel like myself, you know?”

Is change inevitable? Not like the caterpilar to the butterfly, methinks. Our change, as human beings is internal, and there are all kind of external distractions to keep us from it.

So, immorality, if we’re being honest, it’s just more time, and the kind of person who is looking for more time, if I could guess, is one who can’t recognize the problem that’s right in front of them, who instead, is just seeking to get further and further from the truth, because of how it makes them feel. It makes them feel small & that, is the kind of wisdom that makes us cower to the immortals, the real ones, wherever they may be.