Dying In Public Eyes
Shit. How should I put this? Eh?
Oh, he sat there watching himself wondering through the treacherous sidewalks of the township streets for no goddamn clear reason. The reason wasn’t crystal clear as almost all of us often expect it to be during such frightening moments.
But he sat there. He then stoop up. Walked straight up. East, East, East… Then he was lost, first physically and then mentally. He’s been dramatically lost for more than two years.
A friend of him came by, Jaywalker, and asked him a question.
“Hey, buddy! Are you going to distress or what?”
“Naw” was his quick response. He smiled but his smile was phony. He was hiding from agony that was ripping his heart out like the cops ripping black colored plastic bag full of coke in the southern butthole of Latin America.
Wait, now I recall, his friend, Jaywalker, came to him before he departed straight upwards to the East. And then after that he found a spot to set his butt on Death Mode. I know there’s this thing called Monk Mode in the self-help culture. But what about Death Mode. Is there such thing as Death Mode? Anyhow, fuck! But I’m creating it right now.
Yeh, he was on Death Mode. The sun was still up. It was during the afternoon around 5pm, you know. That boring Sunday afternoon that makes us sluggish and even lack a desire to have sex. The sun was in “power struggle” with the Cold Winds and he was just wearing a sweatpant and a green v neck t-shirt. The Cold Winds were fucking united and strong as a stupid shoal of fish (or like a virgin’s cunt) and these winds seemed to give zero-fucks about the presence of the sun. They blew ripped A4 papers upside down, plastics, tress, grass, curly hairs, and women’s skirts. The sun was helpless. So was this guy.
He laid down there with his back on the grass and faced the butthole of the sun shining and dancing in slow motion. The more he looked at the sun’s butthole the more he got pissed off and heavy-hearted. He then closed his eyes and placed his right arm across his closed eyes to block the reddish light of the sun. Then it was dark. He welcomed it. No sun’s buttholes at this time. No more reddish lights. Only complete darkness. And he let his mind travel alone through that darkness and began to bump against some strange, downright chilling shit.
He found himself searching for shit he wasn’t sure of together with his efficient escort of agony. Agony? Yeh, sure. That shit ain’t going anywhere. It was with him everywhere he goes whether it’s dark or blue. Whether there are sun’s buttholes or not. It’s there. With him.
A few milliseconds later, he tried to think among those members of agony but it was too late. Too fucking late. His thoughts were already there and ready to be selected in his head before they select themselves. (Woo-hoo!! I wonder who the fuck will be the first to be chosen. OMG! I’m so excited, my mom needs to see this.).
All of a sudden, he contemplated death. Death was lucky. He was in the open space of sport ground. So open that it was nearly a 3 square-km area with various fields from soccer to rugby fields and from hockey to cricket fields and whatnot. In that big ass area with many fields in it, Death was the chosen one to be hoped on.
He thought about suicide (Damn! This guy’s thoughts are so bloodcurdling). He thought about strategies of committing suicide, the location of that event, time, and the dress code. He went on contemplating it for like six minutes. His plan went this way:
- Strategy: Eat his first favorite meal (sour milk) and go to the hardware store to buy a 3 metres strongest rope of them all (Dyneema rope) for 15 rands. Write a letter that says goodbye to his mother and his family and crew.
- Location: At home. He will fully lock the doors and the windows. Turn off the lights. And then hang himself up in his room.
- Time: 5pm. Yup, he always like 5pms because 5 is the often the sensible number to him.
- Dress Code: His favorite black sweatpant and his grey long sleeve t-shirt and nike shoes.
But then with a speed of light, he retreated from those gloomy thoughts for a minute and parked them there on the waiting list to consider more of what disrupted his good suicide plan. He thought about the pain, shame, and tears he would leave behind to his mother and his younger siblings. He was a cowered. And a loser.
He said “Fuck!” with the bass voice. He decided to jump into conclusions that his good suicide plan sucks. And that it was over. He got angry at himself for having loosen self-control. He hated himself.
While he was still lying there with his back on the grass as well as his right arm across his closed eyes, he then looked further at his love life and all those shitty struggles of love and care.
Nobody gives a shit about me, he thought. No one actually cares about me, he added. He wanted to cry. He literally craved for it. At the last moment, he forced his eyes by pressing the eyelids tightly against one enother to let his tears come out. And then he felt one tear drop coming out of his left eye rushing down to his left ear and making it wet (please, no more dirty thoughts here about the word “wet”. We are talking about a serious issue for now).
Okey, where was I? Oh-oh, the guy cried. He felt unwanted. He felt unloved. He felt numb while his tears from both eyes now were busy rushing down to his ears. The weather began to feel quite unpleasant, causes keratosis pilaris. And then…
He saw himself dying in front of public eyes.
