It’s not that I fear death, but rather, that at the instant of my passing, my life will flash before my eyes and embarrassment is the thing pushes me over the edge.
You know, watching the scales that take into consideration those worthy things and their despicable counterparts that I have affected in my short time in this place tip relentlessly toward the black and grimy side of my life, rather than the selfless acts and words of contrition that my residual self-image would have me believe defined who I was as a person.
I shudder at the thought that ‘A man who believed his own marketing’ would make a fitting epitaph, carved into a grandiose headstone in a forgotten, dull green, weed infested corner of a cemetery somewhere in middle England. Scarcely tended, seldom visited, smelling of week-old dog piss. Abandoned, much like the plans and schemes that infiltrate my consciousness every waking hour. Dreams that are full of ambition, scale, charity; resulting in plaudits and fame, smiles and adulation.
And yet, once shaken from the fantasy that takes me to a special place, at least daily, I survey the stage that I have created for myself and realise with a dull ache in my belly that I am mundane, commonplace, my words and actions are for nought outside of my immediate sphere of influence, and little more than that within.
The carefully constructed machine that I have clothed myself in, my defensive mechanic, my devil-may-care-fuck-you attitude that I fling about with abandon when confronted with something mildly inconvenient is a sham. Reinforced by the action, or more likely the inaction of those around me. A community of people who are as indifferent to each other as they are to me. I am alone and miserable, and if I am being honest, I have no-one to blame but my incessant desire to hold onto the lie told to me as a child that ‘I am special’.
A construct designed to promote confidence, one that most parents would not think twice about telling their own crotch goblins on a semi-regular basis. Happy Christmas, Santa is real, the tooth fairy should not be feared, and you are special.
We are not special. We are a statistical eventuality. A maths project.
This is not a generational thing, rather, it is an ‘every generation’ thing. Every wave of new humanity that is unleashed on this planet is born of the environmental momentum from which it springs and then asked to make the best of the mess that is left behind by its predecessor. And this is not a rallying cry against the previous generation either. Those who were issued from identical circumstances. We continue to claw our way, further from the primordial ooze that our forebears found themselves in, fighting to make a better place for our children, whilst resenting them for how easy things are compared to where we came from. Holding on tightly to the shiny, unnecessary plastic objects that we have amassed through the eight or so decades we were allowed to be here.
We are fighting a losing battle. We know this, we are made aware of this on a daily basis. We are told that we have a contribution to make, but when we make it, it is ignored. And why shouldn’t it be? It is inconsequential. We work together in our isolated states to create the facade of order and continuity, whilst the entire Universe tends to chaos. We engage in a futile routine of making the world a smaller place, whilst stars explode, black holes consume, and furious energies tear the very fabric of space and time. In the meantime, we are content to fight with each other over who’s turn it is to answer the plaintive cry from the other room. Subdued, beaten, one will wearily concede, lift themselves up from whatever they were doing and with a blackness in their heart, reserved and directed at the other, will walk towards the call. Hating the machine, praying for a change.
If drastic action is called for, it will result in the selfish pursuit of our own agenda, laying waste to the hopes and dreams of those that have decided to join us on the journey. But what if they feel the same way? What if they are planning their own escape route and are wrestling with the guilt of leaving me behind. Parallel plots to serve the needs of the individual, rather than, say, working together on our common ailment, so that when it comes to it, we can stand, with our heads held high, saying proudly: ‘Yes we were miserable, but at least we were miserable together.’ Do they not realise just how special we are? How special I am?
And so, morose and turning these unanswerable questions over in my head, painfully aware of my desires, momentum, and fortitude recede to be replaced by a slow black funk, creeping through my decrepit system, I ask the only question worthy of this moment.
“What am I?”
I am invisible, I do not exist outside of my own phantasmal world. This ridiculous construct of rules, morals, social expectations and boundaries.
This machine.
I am held captive in a prison complex of my own design. My escape is as easy and as hard as I wish it to be. All it takes is the courage to look at it with the scales ripped from my eyes. Understand it for what it really is and then act.
Except, act to what end? What do I wish to achieve? What do I want? I may have an idea of where I am, albeit a naive and childlike understanding of things as they are, not as I wish them to be, but where do I want to be? What do I need to do to get there? And at what cost? To me? To those around me?
And who is the enemy? Who are the guards within this structure? How do I slip past the roaming spotlight, poised to highlight this fraudulent attempt at escape? Who the hell do I think I am? What makes me so special?
You are not special, you are a infinitesimal mote, spinning and lost within the vast vacuum of existence. Nothing you do matters, no-one will care. You have played by the rules all of your pathetic life. You exist only to be sold to. You hate your life, you hate your job, you’ve been cooped up in your house for what you laughingly describe as an eternity, and no-one cares about your struggles. There are those in the world whose struggles are life threatening. Who battle with war, famine and disease. Whose overlords charge them to be healthy and who ignore them when they are in need.
You live within the top tier of wealth in this world and want for nothing other than to add to your increasing pile of ridiculous objects, which you hide away on the odd occasion that visitors call; arguing in the car as to when they can leave, without breaking the artificial boundaries of social etiquette, eager to get back to their own comfort zone. Their own self-imposed machine.
You are nothing and nothing matters.
I am nothing and nothing matters.
I am invisible. I can do what I please. I am nothing. No-one cares what I do, but then, no-one cares what I do.
Nothing matters.
I matter.
And I am going to make them pay.
