I have the propensity to listen to the same song over and over and over. I play Don McLean’s Vincent, for instance, for straight ten hours and just drown myself in everything that I cannot let go.
It’s a sort of addiction, an opiate that helps me overcome my personal demons as I cross and struggle in this sullen mist called life. I no longer want to live mine, yet I am forced to do so.
I wish checking out of this existence is as easy as checking out of a hotel room.
Earlier this afternoon, I died again today, Thursday. More like, I discovered another piece of me lying dead and rigid and numb on the ground.
I took a stroll and found myself at the foot of a towering tree. I watched hundreds and hundreds of its leaves fall and fly and drift nonchalantly in the wind, until it settled, finally, on the cold pavement with other dead leaves.
It must have felt home, a sort of community and belonging; of no longer being displaced or isolated or unheard, of no longer being a passerby looking at the transparent window of a restaurant and watching everyone inside
savors their lunch
palm pressed on the glass and thin body shivering in the morning field of this dark, unforgivable summer, time passing and not waiting for anyone.
That’s what I’ve been wanting to do, actually, but no one bothered to ask. I want to fall on the pavement, until the end of everything, and watch the hundred leaves fly, fly away.