I introduced him to my mother today.
It went so well, she might like him more than I do.
While I’m on the topic of death- I broached the subject with him,and at this point I’m fairly certain he’s sick of me talking about it so casually. I told him I never planned on dying at a ripe old age. Live fast, die young, as the cliche goes. I told him I’d probably live through my 20’s, and who knows? He promptly responded he might be able to convince me to extend that a little longer, to which I replied fine then, my 30’s, asking him how long he wanted me to live anyway. Then came the,
"I don’t know. The world would be a darker place without you, though."
and me saying,
"Oh, believe me, I’m not exactly the light of the world."
"You might be to some people."
And I felt tears stream down my face at that because he is so, so wrong.
I don’t know why it is that I’m unafraid of death. I think all of us are, usually. Our brains have to constantly be in denial that you could die by walking down the street. Or eating. Or by falling asleep. If not, we would forever be in a panic just thinking of all the ways we could die the moment we wake up.
All that aside, I’m not afraid to die. Maybe because I just don’t care anymore, and that life has lost its meaning to me. It’s odd, how sometimes, other people value our lives more than we value ours. It is, after all, other people who come to your rescue and hug you and wipe your tears when you tell them you want to take your own life. Perhaps because they see the beauty in you that you never will.
Every day I test my luck, flirt with death. Little things like cross the street when five lanes of cars are going at full speed. Little things like walking too close to the edge of a roof when its windy. Little things like maybe taking more pills than I should.
Because when someone has to push you out of the way of an oncoming car, or yell at you to step back from the ledge, or question why the pillbox is almost empty, grabbing you back into reality while you’re on the cusp of dying, the adrenaline coursing through your veins reminds you that you are, in fact, alive.
Flirting with death is the best kind of flirting, and every time you do you can’t help but wonder if it would be your last time.
That is what makes him the same as the others but yet so different. Because my feelings for him come and go. The ebb and flow of my emotions are constant, I doubt him, then I don’t. I want him, so bad, so desperately, then the longing fades into apathy. But what makes him different from the rest? My feelings for him come and go like waves meeting the shoreline. They never stop coming back.
And as I sit on a metal box in a dingy alleyway at 7 in the morning with metal grates still covering the entrances to the restaurants lining the street, I think to myself,
"I feel most alive when I’m killing myself,"
As I suck on a cigarette. I watch the fumes, the smoke, billow upwards only to be caught by the wind and untangled, being flung around and distorted, unraveling into thin air until only it’s scent remains.
I chase an insect with my eyes, following its movements, darting manically in a morbid dance as it tried to avoid the line of smoke I was blowing out of my mouth.
In that moment, with my music player blaring bass heavy, electric guitar laden music to be transmitted into brain signals via the vibrations emitted by my ears, with a cigarette resting lazily in my right hand, I breathed in the crisp, morning air, and felt more alive slowly scorching my lungs with a mass produced, paper wrapped plant than I have in a long time.
Everyone has limits. I’m just wondering where mine is. 18 years I’ve been breathing. In, out and back again. I’ve felt strong. I’ve felt weak. I’ve felt both fighting for dominance in my head, in my bones. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve cracked and just don’t know it yet. Sometimes I wonder if I have, a long time ago, and the memory of it is buried too far below for me to excavate because I’m scared to know if I really am crazy. But I’m still here, breathing, in, out and back again. And I still have a long way to go and I’m ready to walk that path, whether its a road of broken glass or an untarnished pane.
Because he makes me want to and he’s not even trying.