My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

You’re sitting in a bar drinking a vodka tonic. It’s goth Christmas all year-round, little colored Christmas lights with little lit-up skulls hang from the ceiling above your back-corner table. Otherwise, the place is dimly lit, smokey from so many cigarettes, awash in loud music. None of it unpleasant.

Silence from the jukebox, then an acoustic guitar, a wispy melancholy voice. Elliott Smith sings about somebody that he used to know, you think about somebody that you used to know. لعبة بوكر You wish that the song were true, that the person bouncing around in your head didn’t matter. bet365.com  Of course, they do matter, they always matter, and it kills you by inches every day. قانون لعبة البوكر  The vodka helps you forget, but not enough, never enough. You take a sip, it burns going down, a burn that’s somehow soothing. Pain makes you think of pleasure, makes you think of pulled hair during sex, makes you think of loss.

There’s a ghost in your head killing you by inches, and you wish you would just die.

Following a report that, “God’s a sadistic fuck who let His only Son commit suicide for the press coverage,” God’s press secretary issued the following statement.

“God does in no way condone the act of suicide. Contrary to recent reports, Christ did not commit the act of suicide, but rather, an act of Free Will and Faith in His Father. God judges all, and judges Christ’s actions to be completely free of sin. None may question His judgment, because He said so. Amen.

Neither God, or Christ were available for further comment, as reports indicate that They’ve hopped a train for the coast, accompanied by the Holy Ghost.

Your hand is the dead weight dragging you down into nothingness. It’s cold and dark, lonely and empty. It’s lifeless life, you’re a living corpse filled with conscious thought. You sink slowly, quietly, waiting and wanting to hit bottom. You find no peace, no comfort, no end.

Endings used to scare you, but not anymore.

You’re all sex, and liquor, romance and sin. You’re all dark clothes, and dark music, dark words. America, baseball, apple pie, these things you’re not. You fit nowhere, tired of trying, searching, tired of wanting. You’re all lonely and bored, things you hate, and never lack.

You slit your wrists in a crowded bar. You put a bullet through your head at dinner with friends. You casually tumble onto the highway from a moving vehicle. You kill yourself at Starbucks. A dozen imagined suicides everyday. You imagine warm blood running down your arms, you feel the cold gun barrel against your temple. The song in your head goes, “ten good reasons to stay alive, ten good reasons that I can’t find…” A soundtrack to bleeding out. 

A dozen imagined suicides everyday, a dozen morbid prayers for peace. Morbid prayers, but prayers just the same.

Soon, you’ll be asleep. Drugs will travel through a tube and into a vein in your neck, and you’ll go down. It’ll feel like forty year-old scotch, like the best sex you ever had, and you’ll go under, totally lost and happy to be so.

Yet, before the drugs take you, before life fades to black, you wonder about things. You wonder if you’ll wake up again, you wonder where you’ll go if you don’t wake up. You wonder if you’re a good person, if you deserve a return trip to consciousness. Mostly, though, you think about her. You think about her gorgeous brown eyes, the little strand of curly brown hair that dangles behind her ear. You think about her voice, how the sound of it makes you happy. You never hear her enough, you never tire of talking with her. She’s ridiculously smart, endlessly interesting. You think about holding her close, her warmth against your chest. You think about holding her, kissing her, soft and slow-like. You wonder what she thinks about you, if you’ll see her again.

The drugs are hitting you now, and soon you’ll be asleep.

You can’t breathe. It’s hardware failure, the machine that pumps air into a hose that connects to a hole in your throat is letting you down. That isn’t exactly right, it’s really the hose that’s letting you down, an unexpected disconnection. Air that’s supposed to be rushing into your lungs is rushing nowhere in particular, steady and quiet-like. You’re quiet too, you can’t yell, you can’t move. You’re also quite alone, alone and not breathing.

Taking a moment, after the initial shock fades, you find that you can manage little gulps of air. The muscles in your chest aren’t entirely useless. So, you breathe small breaths, shallow breaths. You know that these breaths will be gone soon enough, that your chest will tire of its job. All you can do is space your breathing, not waste anything in panic. There’s really no reason to panic. Someone will either find you, or they won’t. You’ll either die, or you won’t. You’re strangely calm on these points.

You think about a woman, the one you used to think about to feel safe in these situations. You think about how she’s gone and far away, disconnected. You miss that connection to her more than you miss the connection that would bring air into your lungs. You know it’s ridiculous, but you also know it’s absolutely true. You wonder if you’ll ever feel that kind of connection again. You wonder if you’ll write about this later. You hear air rushing to nowhere, you wait.

She’s beautiful, so smart, endlessly interesting. You tell her these things, because they’re entirely true, because whenever she’s around you’re entirely happy, but she just smiles and looks away. She doesn’t think she’s particularly amazing, but you know she is, and you want her to know it. Talking with her is the most natural thing in the world, you’re both so ridiculously alike in your odd contemplations. Your wants and worries are so the same.

You’re a restless sort, rarely content, often lonely, no matter who’s around. You always feel that you ought to be somewhere else, but that somewhere is elusive, never within reach. These feelings are usually so palpable, but not when you’re with her. Lying next to her, holding her hand, her head on your shoulder, loneliness doesn’t exist. You don’t want to be some place else, there is no place else. Being close to her is like walking through an opiate fog, but that feeling of peace, of contentment is real, not a drugged out illusion. You want to say these things, her lying so close, but you don’t. Her brown eyes are gorgeous and bright, warm and alluring, they make you forget your way with words.

She comes to me in a dream, so beautiful, so real. She’s lying next to me, holding me close, gorgeous eyes smiling. Her lips are warm and soft, kissing my neck. She tells me she misses me, she’s glad to be with me. I want her so badly, I miss her too, every-day. I’m happy to be with her, but it doesn’t last. I’m not there, she’s not there, it’s an illusion and I know it. I tell her it’s a dream, and she says it’s not. I tell her I have to wake up, and she says I don’t. I want to believe her, but I can’t. Reality is bleeding through, a reality I don’t want.

I wake up, wishing I hadn’t.

Dear Diary,

Today I was actually very sad. The nice lady with the puppy was hit by a BIG truck running across the street after her puppy. What does d-e-c-a-p-i-t-a-t-e-d mean? Daddy lost his job and said we can’t afford to feed my tabby kittens anymore, so he drowned them in the bathtub. The nice ice-cream man was going to give me another free ice-cream sammich, but I had to go in the truck to get it, then he touched me in a BAD place and I ran. I told mamma and she told a police-man who took the ice-cream man away. I didn’t get my sammich. An older boy at school was making fun me and I told him to stop because Jesus loves me. He said Jesus is burning in Hell because He let Himself get crucified and that’s suicide. I don’t understand what that means, but I cried and cried because I don’t want Jesus burning.

I’m very sad.