plop

And just like that, it’s over. No get-together, no celebratory jig. Just staring into space: dark, dark space, punctuated every now and then by passing headlights.

They say the reason why some people are scared of death is that they’re scared it’s going to hurt a fucking lot when it happens. But I figure that’s because most of them envision it to be, as the phrase goes, going out with a bang, or even with the slow, pained sputter of expiry on a hospital bed, faint imaginary strings singing in the background. But things don’t always go that way, and sometimes, things are over even before anyone’s had a chance to process the fact.

That’s what this past few months, and this night, have felt to me: a little death, less like a splash, more like the little plop you make by dropping a rock into water. Stand up, walk out, sit down, and then, nothing. Mentally beating yourself up, after all, doesn’t make a sound.

I want to say that I did my best, let God do the rest, yadda-yadda. But the thing is, I can’t. Faith is for people who’ve worked in tandem with their Creator, not for those whose pathetic hubris is backed by some dumb, misanthropic assumptions regarding human nature and morality.

But I tried. I split myself into two people. Or, perhaps more appropriately, 1/3 and 2/3. Or maybe more like 3/5 and 2/5. But who cares about the numbers, when all you need is the fact of inequality? Two people with different weights. The one with the heavier weight buckled, and he blamed the other one. The image might look like it would make a good cautionary tale, only there’s no lesson to be learned.

There is no sense of achievement when nothing makes sense in the first place. None of that lauded impetus that has time and again spiraled people into piercing the heavens. Just a brief, brief respite between drudgeries.

Splitting yourself is tiring. And I am tired. So, so damn tired.

Everything feels… heavy. The weight of the wrong memories coming at the right time and vice versa, of disappointments, of unmet expectations (hubris, I tell you), of believing yourself perhaps not blessed, but in some sense fated to be where you are right now (such hubris, I tell you). On top of all this, the burden of knowing that in the end, you have only yourself to blame: empowering at times, suffocating the rest of the damned way.

I hate competition. Wait, let me rephrase: I hate competing with anyone other than myself. High School Musical, surprisingly, said it best: We’re all in this together. Who cares for the numbers, as long as we make it through, inequality be damned? Being the best would be nice, but anyone who constantly needs to be the best is probably sick in the head. Not that being sick in the head would matter if you’re the best, anyway.

Congratulations, all of us, for making it this far. Now, excuse me while I crawl into a corner and cry myself to sleep.