This is not a particularly strange week end; this is a
typical end of week experience. I am tired and cold, also irritated. As usual
there is nothing for me to do this Friday night. I imagined at this point in my
life I would be the owner of a fully packed, riveting, and potentially enviable
social calendar. Alas, that is not the case at least not in this dim and
insignificant period of my existence. In a few years when I look back upon this
frame of time, I shall regret not making use of it, in exercise or targeted
reading, but I’d like to think in a few years I will not remember this time at
all. Yes, that is much better; I shall pretend this time does not exist at all.
In fact neither do I, not now, not until I find something useful to occupy my
time with.
I stand up and walk towards the window. I could throw myself
from it right now, no one would even notice. Except maybe my cat, but it might
take him a week or so. Unless I fall, and leave the window open, then he will
not realise that his source of sustenance has disappeared, and will simply
crawl out the window to a less negligent
care-taker. It is a saddening thought that I must remember to isolate my
domestic pet before leaping to a sudden death in order for my swift departure
from this earth to gain some momentum.
It’s not as if the cat will gather my relatives, preach them
on the fleetingness of life, and warn them of their near ends. Nor will he
speak on my behalf on the wrongs they have committed, the injustices and
betrayals. My brother, who obstructed any form of kindness that dared steer in
my direction, and stole all of my Halloween sweets from under my bed. My uncle
who made me clean out fish guts at the age of seven, permanently scarring me
for life. My mother, who consistently compared me to her dog. My father, who
implanted within me an irrational fear of balloon animals, and aluminium foil,
and the list, goes onwards.
I walk away from the window, realising I am too much of a
coward to actually take my own life, and that no one would truly benefit from
my death, as I have no life insurance. I try to remember something, something I
had forgotten something that may very well be the reason I am so irritated.
What is it that is so compelling that it picks away at my peace of mind, yet
does not reveal itself? Could I have been so completely lost in thought, that I
have no recollection whatsoever of this single crucial detail that is hindering
the natural progression of my life?
And then the sound goes off, a loud piercing whistle of
steam escaping a metallic whole. I am suddenly reunited with rational thought
and remember that I had left some water to boil on the stove, which I had
forgotten about in my suicidal trail of thought. I walk to the kitchen, to make
myself some pot noodles, and everything is right again in the world.
