Shine a Light
It's hot. And humid. One of those days when your hair never dries after you get out of the shower. And the girls give up trying to straighten their hair.
As I walk I try to clear my mind. But I can't. It's like a fog. So dense that I can actually feel it. Impenetrable. I want to think. And to think clearly. To see things as they actually are. But there's no hope.
I've lost all hope. I've tried it before. Tried to break through. Maybe it works for a day. Probably less. It ends in me realizing that I'm just faking it.
I'll pretend to be all right. Pretend to not be as screwed up as I am. One more day.
That seems to be all I have. One more day.
Have you ever been so scared that you know whatever you do will be the cause of your death? Mess up one more time. Afraid to do anything. After all, I deserve it, don't I?
Maybe I'll get through this day. Maybe I'll stop breathing before I take my next step.
I make my way to where I'm going. There's a hole in my sock. That's not all. I forget where I'm going. It's all habit anymore.
I'm fake. I guess. That's the only possibility left. Because I'm certainly not real. I remember as a child I would swing on my swing-set in my backyard for hours each day. Whistling. Singing. Making up songs all day in the sun. I can remember the grass being so green that it almost hurt to look at it. But even then I remember some of my song-making sessions quickly ending because I was scared that God would be mad at me for making up such useless songs.
Now life is habit. I do everything I can to perpetuate this empty existence. This routine that I'm in. This thing I call my life is killing me. It's driving me mad, at the least. It will be the cause of my end. The end of me.
If it ended, and I didn't. I could live. But I'm scared; too scared to break this routine. What if I can't outlive it? I'm not scared of death. But I am scared of my death.
I promised Laura I'd go watch the fireworks with her tonight. That's where I'm suppose to be going. Now walking is just another means to a pointless end. I don't feel like going. I don't have the patience for it. But I never feel like anything. So I might as well go.
And I'd like to enjoy myself. I'd like to feel anything anymore.
So I walk down the street. There's no side walks. This isn't exactly the newest part of town. Down her street. Up the stairs to her apartment. I don't think I know anyone who lives on the first floor of apartments. Someone must. Knock on her door. I'm not exactly presentable. But good enough. Girls take forever to come to the door.
She says that she's hungry. She wants to go eat. We do have two or three hours to waste before the fireworks begin.
"I don't have any money," I say as she walks out of the room.
I guess she's thinking. I don't know. She's taking forever to answer. She went to her bedroom. Or the bathroom. I guess she isn't done getting ready.
"None?"
"No. I'm poor," I pause. "Remember?"
"You're not poor," she yells from wherever she is.
"I don't have any money," I yell back. "What do you call that?"
It's not that I never have any money. Sometimes I do. I have a job. But the work comes sporadically. I just don't have any money right now.
"Then how do you plan on getting in to see the fireworks?" she asks as she hobbles back in to the room. She's still trying to put a boot on while walking. Seems unsafe. Unlaced and unkempt. She's ready to go.
"I didn't think about that." I really haven't. It hasn't occurred to me that we would have to pay to watch the fireworks.
"I'll pay, then," she says.
"I'll pay you back."
"No. You paid last time, anyways."
When was that? I don't remember paying last time. "No, I didn't."
"Come on. Where do you want to go?"
"To eat?"
Get in her car. I need a car. Well, not really. But it would make things easier. Start the car. If I could just get one without having to pay for it. On the way to eat. Who knows where she's going.
"Where are we going?"
"To eat."
She thinks that she's funny. "Where?" The sun blinds me as we turn. I go to pull down the visor. It doesn't move. It has never moved. But I never remember. I almost always end up trying.
"Where do you want to go?" she says.
"I don't know. You're driving." I grab the visor. "...and buying." I hold it up to the ceiling of the car. It moves a little bit. Just enough to be right in your face. If you hold it in place and hit it real hard next to the hinge, it will stay up. So I do.
"Don't mess with that," she says.
"I'm not. Well, I'm done with it."
"How does Jose's sound?" she asks.
"Expensive." She always suggests Mexican food. I should have seen that coming.
"But good?" she asks with a sudden upbeat tone.
"Yeah, that sounds great," I say, realizing that I'm probably depressing the hell out of her with the way that I'm acting. I sit up in my seat a little. Try to be a little more engaged. "Sorry."
I don't know why I act this way. Why I am this way. Always so depressed. Looking at my life you would think that I should be pretty happy. Most people would be. I think about it sometimes. Maybe I'm just a negative person. I don't know. But I don't want to give it up. It's like this depression is what keeps me alive. It seems like there should be more. That my emptiness is the closest thing I have to hope. Hope that there is something.
"For what?" like she can't tell. I wish I knew her thoughts.
"For being so out of it." That's a nice way to put it. How about I just keep it inside. Don't tell the truth. This seems to be what I always do. Don't talk to anyone else about it. I tell myself that I don't want to depress her, too.
"Where are you then?"
I like being with people. It makes me forget to think about all the things I think about all too much. So why do I always avoid being with people? I feel guilty, I think. For being distracted. Like constantly feeling horrible is my penitence for being so messed up. Like if I don't do it. If I stop thinking about these thing. That will be my downfall. What if enjoying myself is wrong? Just a distraction from the truth. This thought. It gets so confusing. I never get past this thought.
"Huh?" I ask. I heard her. I just don't know what she meant. Or I don't know how to answer her.
"Nevermind," she smiles.