11:56p.m. somewhere in Europe
Suicide he thought, Escape. The doctors had told him that he was dying, yet it was
more than that. They told him he would suffer greatly before he died. He wanted to be
back at home, or what he knew as home, yet he could not go back, for what he knew as
home, as his life, was gone. He wanted to be in his past, which had faded away, leaving
only memories. This curious neurological phenomenon which Arthur Schopenhauer
identified as the source of madness was the only thing remaining of the distant childhood
and happiness. Buddhist philosophy kept going through his head, which stated that life is
suffering and the elimination of desire is the only path to peace, yet what about the
negative effects on life. It is simpler to say to man who wants a lot to stop wanting but to
a person who gets evils, all he wants is to be free from evils, not gain anything new.
He paced around his room, as much as he could, and wondered what has become
of his life. Had this all been a dream? These and many other questions clouded his mind,
to which he added by smoking the freshly rolled joint.
Sitting in front of the computer, blankly looking at the notes that he had been
keeping about his life, he thought to himself about his childhood. He had kept notes on
the computer because after all he was living in a technological age. As far as his
childhood is concerned, he thought about his life in the family country home, surrounded
by forests and cool summer evenings. The memories were so vivid and he just wanted to
be back there again, experience it again. Those days are far away now and he is alone in
this picturesque city, longing for a different time in his life. The days here are numbered
and soon he will be in a place he had come to see as home, but he is scared that the
shadows of this city will follow him back. Being ill allowed him to reflect on the whole
concept of being ill, it is odd to conceive of being not like the rest. Although, he often
thought of himself as being different, this was a physical demarcation from the rest of the
people he knew. He found himself alone, with people sympathizing but not truly
understanding what he was going through. How could this have happened he though to
himself, how could this have happened.
He got up and walked over to the fridge to get some left over pizza. He placed
the slice of cold pizza onto a plate and started up the microwave. Upon the completion of
the cooking, he took out the lonely slice of pizza and walked over to his lonely table and
sat down to eat. He was alone in his room, and although he can hear the noises of people
partying outside, he was disconnected from them. He was alone with his slice of pizza
and his glass of juice, which was already standing on the table. He ate his snack while
watching shows on his computer, since he had no TV; he watched all his entertainment
on the computer. He lay down in his single bed soon after in a daze and flood of
thoughts; it was complete silence outside, almost eerie. He fell asleep soon after in his
single bed, having put his computer on standby mode.
11:00a.m. still somewhere in Europe
He woke up tired and proceeded to his morning rituals of showering and washing
up, after which he grabbed his shopping bag, which he had bought at the store few days
before and started on his walk to get groceries. He ran into some people he knew in the
hall and exchanged a few nice words, fairly superficial and meaningless. On the walk to
the store, he saw a pigeon with its leg stuck between the bricks in the brick covered roads
of this ancient city. He wanted to help the bird but did not know how, so after some
moments of sad gaze he continued on his way..
The shopping experience was as usual. He had to replace a lot of his food which
had gone bad. Food there went bad quickly since by the time it hit the shelves of the store
it was already at or near its expiration. He found the things he needed, added some
chocolates for his minor pleasures and headed back to his room. The bag he carried was
full and heavy and it was not easy for him to carry due to his condition, he managed fine
though and upon the entrance into his room he pulled an apple out of the bag and held it.
This apple too, was on its way to meet its end, this apple too was lonely, he thought to
himself. He held the apple close to his heart, as though it was a prized possession, he
held it and stroked it as a mother would a baby. The apple was his friend in many ways, a
friend who would listen to him and feel with him. The apple’s life had come to meet its
end in his hand and yet the apple did not talk back to him. Would the apple rather rot
without being eaten, he thought. His misery was building up, especially seeing the
beautiful weather outside his window, and people enjoying their life in boats, moving
past him on the canal. He wondered yet again about the demarcation, how being ill
completely removed him from the world and into his own problem. He thought about
how he once was, how he could have been. Nothing seemed to make sense to him, and
he found solace only in his misery.
His day was spent reading, browsing the internet, and looking out his window. He
hit his joint from time to time, he thought it allowed him to see beauty of the world in
ways sober people do not. The special smells of cool summer evenings, the ways the
colors of the leaves had almost pierced his vision, with color of unreal green and gold.
He wanted to be free, to be alive, but he couldn’t. He got his pen and began to write in
his leather bound journal about his epiphanies of life.
How silly I find the world of human existence, really. I can not understand how
pathetic the life of the species really is. The life of fighting and war amazes me, war for
control of territory, for supremacy of ideas and make belief powers. How simple and
ridiculous the whole existence is. Like ants, humans will colonize a plot of land and
claim it as theirs, how they will fight to allow only certain others to remain within and
harshly punish the unwelcome ones. How simple, that society has found ways to demean
and torture others, based on their skin, or belief.
He wrote extensively, and realized what pathetic excuse for life, the humans had.
Perhaps he thought he had achieved something, something that he hadn’t before. Perhaps
he had realized the nature of reality, it is impossible for another mind to know what
insights may be gained by one will to confide in a royal gala.
He looked out his window yet again, he looked down towards the brick laid road
and thought to himself, what if. In a curious questioning of the extent of reality, he asked
the apple what if. He leaned in some more, before he knew it; he was falling, silently,
with his friend in his hand.
Being daytime many people quickly surrounded the ghastly sight, wondering
how, why, who. He was gone; the blood had filled the spacing between the bricks in an
almost artistic pattern. The apple had gently rolled out of his hand and lay nearby, in a
pool of blood, broken by the fall as well. A puddle around his head, his eyes still open,
his body in an odd position facing down on the ground.
His family had come to get his body from the morgue, a gruesome sight for any
relative. He flew back home in baggage, a piece of luggage to be checked and cleared.
An autopsy was later ordered which revealed an infection which could have been cured if