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Another Night and Day Alliance 194
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. . . . . . . . . . "One in the L Column"
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Infernal
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The day I realized I had failed, it was like something swollen and
pregnant inside me had burst, a blister on my insides filled with warm,
slick solution, rupturing painlessly and paralyzing my limbs and organs. It
was a purely physical sensation, what I imagine it must feel like when a
woman's water breaks. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, at
the man no longer young, at the eyes sunken and gray, at the stubble and
pallor that passed for my bravest face. And I knew it was over, and I had
lost.
The last few years had been an upstream struggle, a noble and perhaps
even valiant attempt on my part to postpone this moment. I did not even
realize until now that I was battling, and hard, to fight the inevitable. I
had to stop, to give up, to achieve the clarity it took to see that I was,
truly, a failure. The successes I had were pipe dreams or lies, and the
path ahead of me had but two forks -- one, more lies and self-deceit, and
the other, a quick and painless drop into hopelessness. It didn't take me
long to decide which to choose.
The utter lack of hope has been a liberating experience. I no longer
have to strive to improve my situation -- I expend only the efforts I need
to assure the continued level of comfort I have now. Moving forward is not
an option, so extra effort is pointless. I can, with very little work
generated or thought allowed, provide for food, and alcohol, and rent, and
basic necessities. I need little, and expect less. Each night of
drunkenness in front of the TV is a blessing, each morning under a roof a
humbling revelation. I've reached my zenith. I've hit my goal. It'd be
hard not to stay here. So every day is the best day of my life, and the
pinnacle of my lifetime's achievements. How could I not be happy?
A lot of people and things had to be jettisoned to create this
happiness. Family and friends are the most annoying sources of pressure to
improve, to rise up, to make something of oneself--they were the first to
go. Anyone creative or intelligent I knew had to go next, because of their
incessant blathering about "potential." Don't I know what's best for me?
Don't I have the best vantage point to see my impossibilities and work
around them? Work under them?
Eventually, I was able to shed everyone, like a snake peels away its
dead skin, only in reverse. I molted out of my living vibrancy into a husk,
a shell, a crackling cocoon to hide in, to set up camp in and never come
out. The world will always need TV viewers, and dishwashers, and drinkers
of cheap beer. Who are you to say this isn't my destiny? How can you tell
me this is not exactly where I am supposed to be? I haven't had to expend
this little effort in my entire life, and as far as I am concerned, it can
stay this way forever.
It doesn't hurt to live this way, not like it used to before. The
last weight off my shoulders was my heart, and once that was gone,
everything was easier--that thing was nothing but trouble. It made me do
silly, impulsive things, standing under girls' bedroom windows like some
idiot in a made-up play, writing words and making a racket to express the
dumb ideas it made me think. Once it was gone I didn't need music, or love,
or sunshine, or conversation, or intimacy. Everything I needed could be
bought at the corner store, before one a.m. and after 5:30. Less need
equals less worry, and right now I want for nothing. If I'd known it was
this easy to live this way, I'd have lobotomized myself years ago.
Goodbye.
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. anada 194 by Infernal (c)2000 anada e'zine .
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