having said so much.

he used to wake up, and he'd be afraid. what was he so afraid of? oh, you know. alarm clocks, school, sugary breakfast cereals, boredom, dental appointments, tests, acceptance, girls, bullies, discipline, feeling inferior, feeling alone, god, church, sitting still, dogs, anything outside the house, really. a lot of the time, he resented his parents, though he'd never outright admit it. the fuck you bring me into this world for, he wanted to say. the fuck was y'all thinking? he knew others had it worse, and some had it better. as for him, well, he'd just about had it.

when he was a kid, on some weekends, he'd wake up at his classmate's house. those were always the worst, those saturday night sleepovers. he liked night time. maybe he always thought he'd die in his sleep, and he lived each night like it was his last because he'd just let it all out. he'd tell about everything, what his heart felt, what he was thinking, what he dreamed of, and what he feared most. and his classmates, his friends, they'd just keep on playing streets of rage or poker or dominoes and just say, yeah yeah yeah. in the morning, when he'd wake, he'd regret having said so much. he imagined that was how he would feel when he got older, one regrettable night after another. hangovers and one night stands and whatnot. all he had to look forward to.

and there was that awful stench of his friend's house. it must've been their laundry detergent or something. it made the whole house stink, and his clothes would reek of it for the rest of the week. his classmate's brother would be watching some shit show on the t.v., something like american ninja. sunday afternoon television, always the worst. and then they'd go for a swim. he'd be hesitant to take off his shirt and show off his stomach, especially if his classmate's older sister was around. not like he stood a chance with her anyway. who could love a fat loser who cried himself to sleep every night?

eventually, he lost the weight and someone did love him, but not in the way he wanted. maybe he just wasn't ready for it. he'd wake up next to her, and every morning, he'd think less of her. why's she with me anyhow, he'd say to himself. this is never gonna work out. he hated himself, that much was clear. he'd waited his whole life for this, for some kind of acceptance, some sort of recognition, but love was never even a part of it. sure, he said i love you, but it was only because it was a line he'd heard in the movies and on television. really, what he meant to say was: i can't wait until you break my heart, so i can just go on feeling the way i've always felt.

and so it happened. he was able to go back to the way he'd always felt, and he began waking up alone again. he'd wake up in the middle of the night, and he'd be afraid. what's this pain in my side? cancer? i could get an aneurysm any second, what would that feel like? he'd imagine something just bursting in his head, popping like a balloon, like the clown's head in a carnival game, the one where you'd shoot a stream of water into the clown's mouth, and the balloon would just grow and grow, until finally, pop. try going back to sleep after that one.

all that was left now was the alarm clock. and boredom. and each night, he still put it all out there - everything on his mind - to an audience of strangers. to anyone who would listen, anyone at all.

1 comment:

Aby said...

Feelin sad after reading all that.. I like your posts but this was bit sad.