Rickard
Through The Veil
Frogs
Sometimes
people will ask me: “What do you like to do?” And maybe I will
say: “I like to be outdoors.” or “I'm kind of a club rat.”
But it's a lie, worse yet, a fabrication.
I
like to stay inside, with the doors locked up, the windows latched
tightly, and music playing loud enough to hear, but not loud enough
to disturb others. Most importantly of all, I like to be left alone.
I don't like the company of others. I find it to be very much like a
man in a straight jacket. Your arms are confined to mere shrugging
motions, and the only thoughts allowed into your head are plans of
escape. I experience every symptom of loneliness, yet I am not alone.
But
I should explain, you see...
I
was floating chest up in a pool of cold water. I remember asking why
it was always cold? When you slice your wrists, are you so worried
about the temperature? Then I thought about hot water, how good it
would have felt right then, curling over my ankles with spirals of
warmth. Then I thought about the cut. I thought about the rub burns
from Jiu Jitsu, how after they soak in warm water, how badly they
burnt. I couldn't imagine an open wound. But I could rest assured in
the knowledge that I was in cold water, not because of an informed
decision, or because I researched it. I did it because of a decision
that a Hollywood producer made during the production of an art film I
saw when I should have been enrolled in college.
But
I wanted to be alone. That was the difference. I concentrated on the
song playing in the living room. I put it on repeat, so the neighbors
would complain. I didn't want to rot away in a pool of muddy corpse
sludge. I wanted to have a nice looking corpse. One that people would
say, man, what a handsome guy. He had everything to live for. Sob,
manly hug, turn, and wipe eye with instep of thumb for maximum
coverage.
I
had nothing to live for. I had a job. A job is no reason to live.
It's a reason to die. The water was turning to merlot around me, and
I could hear old Layne crowing:
“Why's
it have to be thissa way?
“Beeeeee
thissa wayaaaayayyyyyyyy?”
And
at that moment, when my eyes went black, I saw my first birthday. I
didn't retain the memory so young, so in effect, it never happened,
but somehow, just then, I saw it. It was as if I had stored it away
somewhere, just forgotten where I put it.
So
there it was, playing out in front of me like an old reel to reel
projector playing on the wall of my skull. The color of the eighties,
and the innocence of being too young to understand the crushing
burden I have thrust upon my parents just by being born. This was one
of the few innocent moments in my life, and it was gorgeous. Everyone
was smiling. Relatives I hadn't seen since that day were there. They
hired a clown. A clown! This was a celebration of all the good things
you bring. You bring life, the potential of life, and the sorrow of
loss, but you don't stay that way, and suddenly... I didn't want to
die. I wanted to live.
I
wanted to change my life forever and turn over a new leaf. If I lived
through this, I would never take another day for granted. I would be
the life of every party, the one everyone wants to know. Of course it
was already too late for that, because the room was already black,
and I had passed beyond some veil which covered me in shadow. All the
light in the room was getting further away from me, receding back to
a vanishing point in a black rippling fog. After a few moments the
walls started to shake, and before I could react the water was pulled
from the tub, and became part of the singularity forming at the base
of the bathroom. The world was fluxing, and I felt my head, my body,
then my legs being pulled into a tiny ball of light. The light grew
brighter, and brighter, until I could not see my feet, then my waist,
then my hands, and it was finally like falling face first into snow,
but keeping your eyes open.
And
then we exploded.
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