Again My World Was Bright

It seemed to dance in and again my world was bright. I pondered the idea of rising. Each and every new day made it less and less more reasonable to embrace the ambiguity of existence. Some would say that existence is the farthest thing from ambiguity, but I have to disagree. Ambiguity and existence are practically synonyms, in my eyes, and those who think differently aren’t free thinkers at all and, therefore, merely waste their existence in a blind state of unknown ambiguity. When you learn to see through ambiguity and obtain true eyesight the world often resembled a lollypop, spherical and sugarcoated. To crunch away to the sugar center would be to abolish order and reason as we know it, but what do we really know. This world is run by its politics, but when you look at the big picture, politics is nothing but an opinion. Opinions. They are nothing but unstable favored ideals, yet we base a civilization on them. I have never been able to comprehend any other life form, their actions, or their business besides myself. And even then, with myself, I sometimes don’t understand. God, heaven, angels, space, universes, galaxies, solar systems, planets, continents, countries, politics, politicians, civilians, parents, daughters, sons; who am I? Where do I fall? I am human. I am male. I like being alone and reading. I like driving at night in artificially lit streets. I live alone and I eat alone and I sleep alone. I sometimes talk to myself or laugh to myself. I never wanted to be alienated. Things like that just happen without thinking. The more I slip into confinement, the more time I have to think about these topics that have plagued philosophers forever. My eyes tear to ponder the unknown, well, the unknown to the ambiguously blinded majority. I think I might know the answers, though. They have been right in front of us all this time.

With my feet plastered to the floor I began to make my way out of the light. It seemed to follow me into a dark corner, killing my shadow and in its attempt.  The sunlight never appeared to be such a spiteful being until recently. It was a friend you somehow wronged and now he wants you hurt. How depressing. Times like these make it hard for me not to question the relativity between the sun and I. Without it we’d all die, but why does it seem so angry towards me? How have I wronged it? Wait, is it listening-- can it hear me? Ridiculous. I brushed the idea from my mind, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. The idea of life after death is so hard to believe that I simply don’t believe it, but if that isn’t true then what is the purpose of life? I stood for a moment and looked opened my blinds. To my shock I noticed a stream of dried blood fleeing from my left nostril. It flooded with the most beautiful relief imaginable.

The sun is a determined being. He stared at me through my open window. I heard him laugh so once more my blinds were closed. Though my shades, it still desired to enter into my world and brighten it. Though today it was particularly angered, the sun was much like a mother figure and I will hold that against it. I made my way to my doorway and glanced back at my window. Light, it is, indeed, a very curious force. Without it our species wouldn’t exist, but if it plays such an important role then what role did it play in the beginning. Did god create light before mankind or did it all come together scientifically like we learned in ninth grade science way back when? If science is correct there is no need for god. He only adds to the sugarcoating. The clouds passed over the sun, covering it and my room went dark. I savored the moment in silence, still half-asleep and full of the wonder of a new day.
I found myself not in my doorway anymore, but back onto my bed. My father woke me. He stood over my bed and whispered into my ear like he does most mornings, like he did that night. He was gone when my eyes opened. I laid there, paralyzed, realizing I didn’t even remember walking back and getting into my bed. I got up again and wiped the sleep from my eyes before I embarked out of my room. As I reached for the doorknob something odd happened that I can’t quite explain. The clouds parted and the sun shown down into my window and hit the mirror on the wall next to me. It reflected across to the wall on the other side. When the reflected light hit the white wall it seemed to glow and I stood in an area engulfed in light. It was somewhat overwhelming and I thought to myself if this was how the gates of heaven were. I don’t think I’d ever know for sure. My hallway was dark besides the light glowing through the window at the end. I heard my mother scream and I quickly turned my head in the direction it came from. This was followed by the sound of two plates being broken against the wall. This was, indeed, a sad house.

My parents split up when I was fourteen about thirteen years ago. Everyday my dad would come home from his job as a lawyer in the city and bust through those big front doors. I was always glad to see him. He was a very nice man and always treated me good. He would come through those doors and greet my mother and I with such warmth; it was really great now that I think back on it.

“Are you alright, Jon?” I heard my mother’s voice echo through my head. The phrase ricocheted through my skull before exiting through my mouth:
         “No,” I said out loud, “I hope you’re fucking happy.”

My mother looked so happy with my father, in fact, I know she was and so was I. One night I was in my room doing homework. It was probably around 7:00. I entered his room, which was down the hall and to the right from mine. It was big with a great big bed right in the center. There was a large closet that my mother and him shared across the left wall of the room and dressers on the right side. When I was in his room I saw him on his bed with his head down. He had a letter in his hand and he couldn’t seem to take his eyes from it. The paper was new, crisp, and neatly folded. There was a ripped envelope on the floor by his feet. It had dark dotted stains across it. His hands were quivering as he dropped the letter down to the envelope. I noticed the letter had the same stains on it and I then realized that they weren’t any normal stains: they were teardrops. He buried his face into his hands as he hunched over and began to sob. I stood there for a moment looking onto him with such sadness and respect. I didn’t know what else to do. I just stood there and watched and before I knew it my eyes were tearing. I walked toward him and laid my hand onto his leg. He then turned to me and embraced me. It was the most powerful embrace I have ever felt. He hugged me and cried and soon I was crying. He began whispering in my ear, “I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I just… I just,” his voice broke with a sob, “I just can’t help it. I love her… I do… I just… oh god.” He squeezed me tighter with each sob and it seemed to squeeze the tears out of me. I was sorry to, but I didn’t know why. “I just want you to know,” he looked up at me with his sad eyes. I looked as though he hasn’t slept in days; instead, it looked like he has been up crying for days, “I want you to know that I will always love you two. Nothing will change that. Nothing.”

         “You told me you were going to Boston, you fucking son of a bitch,” my mom screamed. “You were going to Boston on business and I find you with a fucking gun in your mouth, you smug fucker!” I heard another dinner plate crash as I tried to comprehend what she was saying. This isn’t real, I thought, I am alone in this house. “I want you out of this house! I want you out now!” I want nothing more, but for her to cease.
         “Shut the fuck up, mom, you fucking pig. I want you butchered like the swine you are, you fucking whore!” My mother is a whore. A no good whore.

It was after I found my father weeping in his room when I learned that he and my mother have been having some misunderstandings. They tried to keep it secret from me, but I heard them argue. They simply didn’t love each other the way they used to anymore. He folded the letter and turned to walk out of the room. I was sitting on his bed the whole time, unmoving, but this was too heavy for me to handle and I fell to my side. “Dad,” I called. My voice was weak and weeping, “Can you shut the light off?” He stood in the doorway and looked at me. He seemed to smile a little which made me feel better and answered, “Sure son, sure I’ll shut the light off.” I laid on his bed for about an hour. I cried off and on, but mainly I just laid there and thought. I thought about him and my mother. I thought about how they put on an act in front of me. I thought about every morning how they would kiss each other before my dad left and how my mother used to smile at his jokes during dinner. I couldn’t help but also think of the future and, though I wasn’t completely sure what was happening, I knew he was leaving the house. It was then I had my first suicidal thought. I thought of killing myself in a final attempt to bring them back together. Maybe grieving over my death together would help fix the problem because, maybe, I was the problem. I reached up to the top of the bed and grabbed my father’s pillow. I pulled it in toward me and buried my face into it. The pillow smelled of him so much that, again, I couldn’t stop crying.

My mother began to sob. I heard the door open and close behind my father. I heard my mother pull up a chair at the kitchen table and sob.

The days after seemed fleeting. My mother sat me down and explained that they were having their differences and my father was going away for a while. I sat and stared at her knowing it was her that initiated the split up. How could she do that to our family, my father? Days after that he left us. I stood in the front yard and watched him lay his bags into the trunk of the taxi and thought about god. Why wouldn’t he stop this? If he knew all he’d know my dad was a great person and that I needed him very much. Why wouldn’t he give me a miracle? My dad slapped the trunk shut and looked up at me with the same eyes he had the night we cried on his bed. He gave me a smile. I saw right through it. It was merely an attempt to keep my strong, but I didn’t smile back instead I stood and stared. He walked up to me, smiled and said, “I’ll be back before you know it.” He never returned. “I love you, pal.” I stood with my eyes closed. I couldn’t watch him get into the cab, but I don’t think I could have anyway, for my eyes were full of tears. I heard the cab drive away, but I kept my eyes shut. I stood there for a minute of two before I began walking back to the house. When I got to the porch I sat down on the porch swing. I felt such unprecedented anger. I entered my home. From the left my mother approached me. “Are you alright, Jon?” She put her hand on my shoulder.
”No. I hope you’re fucking happy.” She stood in the entrance to the family room and watched me walk through the dining room to the staircase. I stopped next to the table and I knew she grew uneasy. I couldn’t hold it in anymore I stomped my foot to the floor and threw my fist through the glass cabinet to my right. I cried and screamed until my mother grabbed onto me. I obtained forty stitches from my hand up my arm from the shattered glass. I still have the scar.

I didn’t much feel like having breakfast this morning so when I entered my kitchen I walked through to the dining room. All the shades were pulled, but the sun stayed persistent. It made me wish for a little ambition or motivation. I couldn’t think of one thing to live for and it made every new day seem gloomier and gloomier. The days seemed endless and redundant. How could I go on when my life seemed so empty, but then again who am I to determine what is and isn’t empty? My life might be full of something, but I just might be too dumb to realize it. I lead a very ambiguous existence, but at least I know I do. I guess my childhood was good considering the split up. My mother wasn’t a bad person or anything; she just didn’t know what she wanted. She raised me well considering I had no father figure. She taught me manners and respect and it always stuck with me. It actually even turned into a pet peeve of mine. I couldn’t stand messy disrespectful people and that is why I never get along with many people. Disrespect ran high in my childhood. Everyone seemed to have something negative to say and it really made me want to be retarded or dead or disabled in some way. I have a lot of ideas that people wouldn’t understand if I just up and said them in the middle of history class, so I would keep them to myself, along with my emotions, and let them pile up. Up and up and up. I think I was in my late teens when I realized nothing seemed right anymore. Nothing had its appeal. Everything grew into a burden and made me anxious. And now I sit alone and eat alone and talk to myself in the dark. What a life to live, but people condemn themselves and I take full responsibility.

I sat and stared at the folded napkin before me. A number was scribbled across its surface. A meaningless number, a number I can’t even remember who it belonged to. I can tell it was a spiteful number. The digits in which it consisted of were ridged and cold and I wanted nothing to do with it because the person it represented couldn’t be much different. I couldn’t help but stare though. Sometimes I feel the most tranquil staring at the things that are very uncomfortable. Like when I was younger, in class, I would stare at a girl. I’d think in my head that I shouldn’t incase someone sees me staring at her they might assume things, but I felt very comfortable. Like finding the coziest place in your bed or sitting down after a long day of walking. No blinking, no moving, just staring and thinking. Nothing was real so why should I care if they thought anything anyway. She was probably a whore anyway. I feel as though I am a mirage in a world of holograms. Life and death; I can hardly tell the difference anymore. I couldn’t believe in death because there is none around me so why should I give into the fear of my own. Instead how about I invite death due to my lack of everything: compassion, companionship, and self-esteem. Why should I make something of myself if, when it all comes down to it, nothing matters? Why should we do anything? Why do I collect obsolete numbers? Is it because I can’t say no when someone seems interested in me? Is it because I have to prove something to myself in order to obtain a sense of sub-conscious pride? Maybe then a little of my emptiness is filled. But by doing that I am condemning the other person to disappointment. I don’t care about them, only myself, so I collect their number and promise to call them, knowing that I won’t. Do what makes you feel because in this world of holograms it’s hard to find something that diversifies you from the rest. It’s like a bad dream suddenly getting better, nothing is real, but you feel good. I’ve been stuck in this dream since I was sixteen. The phone rang. It startled me so that I nearly fell off of my chair. “Hello?” my voice was dry and tired.
“Jon.” It was her. Of course it was her. The only person who checks in to see if I’m still alive, even if it is only because she wants some money or to fuck or something. At least she gives me the courtesy to dream that she’s interested in me for myself. Then again, in return, I’m using her just as much. All she is to me is a few good words to make me smile or a warm body to spend a cold night with. This is not a relationship it’s more like an intimate acquaintance. She wants more, but in all honesty I don’t give a shit about this girl. She can die tonight and in the morning I’ll still wake up. She’s worthless, stubborn, and best yet, nothing. She is absolutely nothing to me. Maybe if I knew her in reality I could love her, but she isn’t real in this world, in this dream. She is not real. “Jon, why didn’t you call me last night?” Not real.
“I fell asleep.”
“Oh. Well I’m on my way to work. Are we still meeting tonight for dinner?”
“Yeah sure.”
“Yeah sure? Don’t sound so enthused.”
“I’m sorry, Caroline, I’m tired.”
“Okay well I’m going to work I’ll see you tonight around six.”
“Yes. Six.” Click. She’s gone, but still,
“Goodbye.” I like to think she’s still there. I hung up the phone and took a shower. Water is probably the single thing that is taken for granted the most. One day it will all run out, but until then I’ll waste it. By then ill be dead or alive or whatever. What matters and who cares? I never did. I guess I shouldn’t say that I never did because there was a time when I did, but that was too long ago to fully remember. So I didn’t try to, instead I just let the water cleanse me. It ran down my face, then body, then through that big black drain at the top center of my platform. Wash everything off of me. Wash all the parts that had strange eyes laid upon it. Wash every part that was touched by a person. Wash it away. Please. I could plead all I want but when I get out of this shower and look in the mirror I’ll still be there. Staring myself down like a high school rival. Reminding me of my mistakes, disappointments, and, of course, my plans. “You don’t scare me,” I said. The pants are placed, zipped, and then buttoned. The shirt is neatly put on. I have a big day ahead of me. There are errands to run and a date at six. The door slammed hard behind me as I stumbled down the stairs and planted my feet onto cement even though I wish they were in cement and falling towards at least seven feet of water. It was another gray day. The sidewalk seemed darker with fallen rain and those who accompanied me on this block all seemed to be down. With my hands buried deep in my coat pockets I pursed through the crowded sidewalks skipping cracks in the pavement like dodging bullets. It was a chilly spring day, but dark like the rest. The clouds seemed to know when I left my house so they can move overtop of me as I walked. It was two in the afternoon so I hurried up. I didn’t know if it was just me or not, but I seemed to be getting some dirty looks. There was always something about the public that I didn’t like; it was a sort of cockiness. The streets are a judgmental place; if you’re not from them, the people who are judge you and if you are then it’s the other way around. It just always struck me odd that people spent more time judging than helping, but that’s the American way I suppose, always looking for the easiest way out of any situation. I rummaged through my pocket for spare change and found two quarters, which would come in handy for the phone call I looked to place. I passed my sixth pay phone. It was on my left against a general store and had matching graffiti. I was making good time, I suppose. Falling droplets of water soon accompanied my watch as I checked the time. What nerves I embody, being forced to check the time like I was waiting for something. Something really important, something out of the ordinary to brighten up my entire life, something, anything to chase these clouds away for good. It was still two in the afternoon when I entered the general store. The doors were like a vortex into another deminension, for time seemed to stop then picked back up, but in slow motion. I saw a hurried customer brush past me on her way out of the door. I saw the clerk watch me with cautious eyes as I entered. I saw a crying baby, a hassled shopper, a clumsy self-stocker; it was like reliving through new eyes. I’d miss it all. After picking up a newspaper I quickly paid and exited. My wallet made a fateful trip into the first garbage can I passed before coming back to the payphone. Payphones made me uneasy. The public, itself, makes me uneasy, but when the public is this dangerously close to the private words leaving my mouth and entering the receiver of the phone I get very uneasy. I picked up the phone and put it to my ear. Two beeps echoed out before the dial tone. My heart stopped. I quickly hung up. I am so bizarre and I know it so before I picked up the phone I looked around to make sure no one saw what I just did. The coast seemed clear so once more I picked up the phone. The dial tone hit me hard again, but this time I fought it by shoving change into the metal slot. My eyes fluttered, my mind raced, my fingers dialed. The human memory is an amazing thing. Scientists have yet to explain how memorization actually works. Fascinating. It began to ring.
         “Hello?”
         “Mom?”
         “Jon?”
         “Yeah”
         “Where- how have you been? I haven’t heard from you in so long.”
         “Yeah, mom, sorry, I’ve been busy.”
         “Busy? You got a job?”
         “Yeah I got that real fancy job I was telling you about the other day, you know at the accounting place.”
         “Oh! Yes, yes. Good. I am so proud of you.”
         “Yeah, thanks mom. I’ve been doing real good. I’m getting married in a month.” She gasped.
         “Really! How wonderful.”
         “Yeah, but mom, listen. Listen, mom. Listen, I’m going to be going away for a little, bit, but I’ll see you when I get back. We’ll get together and have dinner or something.”
         “Where are you going, Jon?”
         “I’m gonna go up to Boston for a while on business.”
         “Oh, Boston, your father went there once. I heard it’s beautiful.”
         “Yeah.”
         “Are you going to the beach cause if you are remember to wear sunscreen.”
         “Yeah mom, I’ll remember. Mom, listen, I got to go I’ll talk to you soon.” I was crying.
         “Okay Jon.”
         “I love you mom. Tell dad I said hello.”
         “Okay I will. He’s asleep right now. You know how he is after he eats lunch.” We laughed, but I don’t know why.
         “I love you mom.”
         “I love you too Jon.” I hung up. I wiped the tears from my eyes and turned to face the street. I noticed people staring.
         “Hey buddy,” a man said pointing to my face, “you’re bleedin’ from your nose there.” I looked at him and nodded as I raised my hand up to wipe it away. I held my newspaper close to me as I hurried down the street. My watch read 3pm as I passed a church. This church was nostalgic. I remember coming here for a funeral. I sat in the front with my mother who was so grieve stricken she couldn’t even cry. I was sixteen. The crowd was full of weeping friends and family. I couldn’t cry though. I didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t know the man in the coffin. I didn’t know reality. I was merely waiting to be woken up by my father’s whispers. Instead I stood up and made my way to the open coffin. The face of the man inside was familiar and hurtful. He was a good man, but a man I never knew. My father was white and frowning. His hands were neatly folded into one another at his waist. He wore an expensive suit that brought out his black hair. I sat back down and the priest began to talk. Yes, I remember this church. It wed my parents, baptized my head, and buried my father. It also birthed my apathy and my mother’s insanity. This church is my god. This house of god is my god. It birthed me and it will take my life. My life and my existence as well as everyone else’s aren’t planned or plotted. Destiny and karma do not exist. Your life and your mentality are molded. Your god is what created who you are at this very moment and at this moment I am tired. I took the sports section out of the paper and carried it with me through the iron gates and past many gravesites. I walked until I found the answers to what I always asked. I found my meaning of life and it was beneath my feet. The stone read my fathers name.
         “Dad I brought you the sports paper. You read it every Sunday morning. Dad, I’m tired. Can you tuck me in.” I heard his voice whisper, but I couldn’t make out his words. “I am ready to be reborn. I am ready to begin to live. I am ready for reality.” The wind picked up and again I heard his voice. “Dad wake me up early tomorrow morning, please, before you go to work. No bedtime story tonight. I am too tired.” It began to rain. The wind blew hard and made me shiver as I passed out on the grass next to my father. The pages of the newspapers flipped in the wind as if they were being read. I knew he’d enjoy that. I fear I will never awake again in this reality. Will I be missed? Maybe. Maybe by my mother who is currently having dinner with Frank Sinatra and Lucille Ball? Maybe by Caroline who at six will enter the restaurant and by seven will be looking for a new fuck buddy. The wind stops and the clouds part and for a minute the sun beats down on me as I drift off to sleep. I know he is approving. I’m paying my debt to my childhood friend. Good night.