⠀⠀⠀ I can’t do this anymore, fuck. I want to get out of here and dwindle myself among the snowflakes. Today was suppose to be a helluva great winter’s night- I had my turkey thawed and ready to be cooked, but the oven became an inferno. So I was left with blackened meat and charcoal-like residues- that was my disaster dinner. Luckily, I’m my own visitor that I had to please, at least I’m fucking thankful to taste a forty-dollar worth of turkey shit.
⠀⠀⠀ I wander around my confined space, lost and seemingly a drunkard among the aroma of burned carcasses and scattered overdue bills. I don’t drink at all, being maudlin is already embedded in my nervous system; same goes for being the most inept at adulting. There are times in my life where I don’t feel like doing shit, and when I do, it’s mostly an excuse to stop going overboard with thinking too much. I’ll admit, I’m a complete chaos; bubbles of emotions are starting to pop- I feel weird as if I’m born again with brand new chemicals in my body. I know my thoughts, they just don’t know my sentiments. Like how I know how to cook a turkey, time was just being an ass to me.
⠀⠀⠀ In all rationality, I want to stop feeling.
⠀⠀⠀ I grabbed my coat and headed outside into the flaky abyss. I was wearing my silky long sleeves, so these tiny particles are turning me into a popsicle. I was cold and pleasantly numb, it’s not that I give a fuck anyways.
⠀⠀⠀ I hastily strolled my way to the park, our local park, where squatters leave trails of their hard-earned, cheapass alcohol and haggard teenagers sleeping through their hangovers. Police would usually report them to the station the next day. Most of the time, their bodies wouldn’t flinch and they never seem to wake up. That’s how it goes in my town, a teen’s life expectancy was all chugged down with bottles of vodka.
⠀⠀⠀ But I didn’t come here to drink nor subconsciously die.
⠀⠀⠀ My hands numbly shelter themselves in my pant pockets- I was freezing like hell as I take a couple of steps. If I were to die from the cold, the townspeople would stick to the assumption that I got killed by my drunkness. It’s a repetitive death and everyone likes to state the obvious. I’d like to sadly think that no one cares about these teenagers. Though, at least they have their honourable places in the obituary section of the newspapers. I’m not here to make fun of death, I mean no disrespect, but these obituaries seemed like they were computer-generated.
⠀⠀⠀ “Elliot Bungshy passed away on June 12, 2012, at the age of 18. He was loved by everyone- his friends, families and even strangers he hasn’t met. They say that he was a diligent student, a great role-model and an innocent kid. He was everyone’s friend, a brother, a sister and even their family’s dog. Sadly, he left his mark on Comebury’s Park, laying on pits of grass with his “Smoke Weeds for Lyfe” t-shirt and his blue ripped jeans, smiling for the very last time. His death was a surprise, nobody knew how he died. Everyone thinks that maybe God has a plan for him-“
⠀⠀⠀ Bullshit. I’m rather too nihilistic to believe in the God-has-a-plan-for-you ideology. I’m not condemning any religions, I’d like to stick to my own skin, but it annoys the heck out of me to see them appear in every death statement I’ve read.
⠀⠀⠀ Now, I’m actually scared.
⠀⠀⠀ With all these thoughts of stupid obituaries, I switched to distracting myself by staring into the lonesome twilight. I noticed the Christmas decorations hanging loosely around the streetlamps; there was also a superficial gingerbread house on display, it was obviously made out of recycled cardboard and other miscellaneous you can find in a D.I.Y. kit.
⠀⠀⠀ I went closer to further inspect the insides. Before I could do so, it tumbled onto the ground, mixing with the snow. It was like witnessing an avalanche. I kind of felt bad since the gingerbread man must be suffocating inside. I’m empathetic enough to see my life being squashed by own edible home. If it was entirely made out of grandma’s delicious oatmeal cookies, I would rather die, thanks.
⠀⠀⠀ Before my burdensome thoughts were about to hop into my brain, I heard a raspy voice behind me.
⠀⠀⠀ “Hey, dude.” I turned around to see that it had belonged to some young guy- he’s lanky and he’s wearing a hunter’s coat. He reminds me of what Holden Caulfield would look like, especially the fact that he’s smoking while sitting on a crate that says Cumbury’s Sex Toys.
⠀⠀⠀ “Hi,” I replied.
⠀⠀⠀ He handed out his cigarette pack, “Need a smoke?”
⠀⠀⠀ I hesitated for a while, I’ve never smoked in my life. He threw both the lighter and the cigarette without waiting for my replying. The lighter had unicorn designs- how cute is that. I flicked the lighter and watched the flames engulfed the butt, I was like the modern-day of the little match girl.
⠀⠀⠀ Then, I make my way towards him to give back his lighter. The closer I got, the more his features became distinguishable. I’m not gonna lie, he’s a good-looking kid.
⠀⠀⠀ “You must be feeling the blues, eh?” I coughed as I took a puff.
⠀⠀⠀ “Yeah, I dropout outta college from a political science degree and I got kicked out of my dad’s house for snucking in some good shit.”
⠀⠀⠀ “Good shit?”
⠀⠀⠀ “Drugs- well, cocaine, basically.”
⠀⠀⠀ “Ah, I see,” I said.
⠀⠀⠀ He looked at me with his sinful eyes. “What about you? What’s up?”
⠀⠀⠀ I’m not good when the conversation spotlight turned to me. My thoughts are in charge of my mind- my comfort country, but they aren’t good at keeping a democracy with me.
⠀⠀⠀ “Um, I feel like killing myself.” I thought it out of nowhere. Fuck.
⠀⠀⠀ He gazed at me with a skeptical look and nodded, “Why?”
⠀⠀⠀ I thought of my depressing turkey dinner, my thoughts, the obituaries, the gingerbread man, my thoughts, my thoughts.
⠀⠀⠀ I simply let out a shrug.
⠀⠀⠀ “Depression?”
⠀⠀⠀ “Way worse than that, I feel like the world is killing me. I can’t stand being here.”
⠀⠀⠀ The silence stood there, creating a boundary between us- he felt like miles away from me.
⠀⠀⠀ But I chimed in, anyways. “Perhaps– God has other plans for me.”
⠀⠀⠀ “Dude, you must be fucking high.”
⠀⠀⠀ “I’m not, I’m sober and my drug tests always comes out clean. What I mean by that is, I could probably be His janitor. I’ll be mopping the floors around Heaven. Sounds holy and therapeutic to me.”
⠀⠀⠀ “Heaven’s already clean, dummy. I don’t even think Heaven has floors, fuck that. I bet everyone could fly there. Wouldn’t that be better?”
⠀⠀⠀ “Yeah, I guess.” And I puffed again.
⠀⠀⠀ How strange that is, I’ve been told, when I was little, that I can overcome anything. But it’s tough to see where my life will stop and when it will begin. I can’t even tell if my skin is my own skin, I’m drowning in bodies of waters when I should be sailing freely into the seas. Even when I tried many ways to fall down, I couldn’t, ’cause I already hit the grounds.
⠀⠀⠀ Maybe it’ll be better in Heaven. Or maybe it’s better if the night won’t rob me away, but I know He’ll come for me and other people like me.
⠀⠀⠀ However, this random, helpless stranger reminded me that I don’t actually mind being on the ground. The world has so many floors, I just have to learn to pick myself up and continue walking.
⠀⠀⠀ Wouldn’t that be better?
The Book’s Information
Rhapsody of Solitary 