I find it funny when I have friends who fan girl on guys and I’m sitting here laughing to myself thinking “omg I made out with that guy”
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.
They say, when you look at someone you like, your pupils dilate. Those small black pinpoints at the center of every human eye grow larger as they are met with the sight of the object of your affection.
I’m glad the color of my eyes are dark, muddy brown or off-black, the same shade as my hair. Not quite black but not light enough to be mistaken as brown from afar. I’m thankful for this because I develop romantic inclinations for people I shouldn’t.
Someone with whom I share a scandalous age gap.
A person of authority I could never be caught in public with.
Someone who is committed to a person who isn’t me.
I am drawn to the taboo, the off-limits, the unattainable. When I am in their presence, I must follow my better judgement and keep my distance. Talk to them without a trace of playfulness, look at them without a hint of lust. I can’t give away any indication of my quiet infatuation. I can’t allow them to detect a single sign that I have interest in them. I can’t allow them to see the pupils of my eyes dilate when we make eye contact.
My dark eyes, they hide the secrets of my forbidden desire.
My mother clicked through pictures of houses for sale in subdivisions on a laptop she barely knows how to operate and pointed one out to me.
"Look Chelsea. Do you like this one?"
I stared at it; it’s new and perfect paintjob. It’s two storey facade with a garage and second floor balcony. The freshness of it, the normalcy of it. Such a picturesque house for a nuclear family of four, a mother with pearls around her neck, a father with a tie around his, two children with beads of sweat around theirs. I shook my head.
"It’s too normal. No character. I would never live in a house like that."
I wouldn’t. Surrounded by such untouched newness, with no ghosts haunting its halls, no scandalous stories the walls could tell if they could talk. No scribble, scratch, or stain left by a previous resident. How could I live in such a place when I’ve lived in an apartment complex where a friend of mine slept in the windowed terrace, the glass window and sliding doors opaque from the winder outside and the warm air from the heater inside meeting on a pane of glass to form a foggy kiss.
How could I live in a house with gleaming hardwood floors when I’ve lived in one where my blood- punched, smacked and ripped out of my veins stained the cold tiles.
How could live in a house with no extra residents when I’ve lived among displaced spirits, the swift reflection moving behind me in the mirror, the unnamed, physically nonexistent pianist who banged on invisible keys on a piano made of air who kept me up late into the night, the lady in purple that I would find frolicking in my room on occasional early mornings that melted into the walls when I looked at her in horror.
How could I live in a house with a view of dirt lot when I awoke on winter mornings to gaze upon the pure whiteness of a Korean winter covering every inch of exposed surface on the 16th floor of my building; to see and smell the blossoming cherry blossoms and magnolia trees and honeysuckle bushes during the spring; the marigold, burnt orange and brown during autumn, the utter greeness of summer.
How could I live in a house on an end of an asphalt road when I lived in a bungalow on the edge of a circular pathway where my handsome neighbor with horrible scars on his arms stopped smiling at me when he heard someone else call me babe, eyeing the “I [heart} Guam” keychain he gave me when I first moved there like he wanted it back.
How could I live in a place so airy and filled with sunlight when I live in a white stone townhouse facing opposite the sun so it is perpetually dark, dreary and suffocating, with a staircase haunted by a gilded clock and a terrace where I smoke as my neighbors watch me with disdain, too scared of me to tell my family.
I could never, would never, live in a house with a freshly painted white picket fence.
I could never, would never, live in a place where doors don’t open and close by themselves, or where the walls would have nothing scandalous to shock me with if I dared them to tell me what they’ve seen.