Blinders
There are four reasons for life. One, the bliss of oblivion. Two, the insanity of passion. Three, the pretense of purpose to which all vitality is subject. And fourth, the illusion of reason
I dislike apartments. To clarify further, I loathe them. They are arrogant and contrived; they accept the likes of mundanity and pretense into their careful confines. Built for an ignoble purpose, they serve that very purpose till they crumble with the stain of greed and sin. Are they so incapable of sacrifice? To, recognizing the impurity of their purpose, cave in upon themselves — destroy their girders, for the greater good?
No. No, despite this, they are proud structures — agglomerations of finely crushed aspirations held together by the necessity of need. I am a little short of two and thirty years of life, yet I recognize this. Many would have failed to do so in my stead. Most would not have the ability to describe it as succinctly as I have done. It’s no fault of mine that you are incapable of comprehending my words.
For the love of God, can’t you see where you’re heading, child? Why are you crying? If you are injured it is only because of your own actions. Get along now. Find your mother. And don’t run, you’ll die before you reach her. You can’t find your mother? Ask an adult to help you, didn’t they teach you that? Hurry up now.
Children. Progeny of the inhabitants of those wretched apartments with their so-called loving families. I don’t condemn them. They did not choose to exist.
The rain is bitter today, and so is the wind. When did it start raining? I suppose I should expect it — it is October. I should not have been out so long. God, my shoes are soaked through. I had the foresight to take out my old coat, since it was raining by the time I stepped out. I haven’t found many who share the same sentiment, but I simply love the sound of water on human skin. It is dull, heavy and decisive. I like to think of each drop being two roads diverging in a yellow wood, with each step of mine being a way forward. Or backward. The direction is irrelevant; what truly matters is the decision, right or wrong. Terrible or gentle. Sometimes I find it hard to follow a single path. So I travel both, for better or worse.
“For better or worse” — I tend to use this phrase rather a lot. Maybe I should stop that. But I wouldn’t be what I am if I didn’t do things that were cohesive with what I could be, every step of the path. Do you follow me? I don’t.
Ah, we’ve reached. I am not a kind person, but I certainly do have basic courtesy. This apartment belonged to my beloved late mother. So kind, so flattering, with that little nonsmile she put on every time I talked to her. Always busy with work, always away, always trying to squeeze more out of the tenants she duped. Perhaps her death was an act of providence, but if it was, she didn’t deserve it; providence is always too quick for my liking. Do you see the swathe of relatively new paint on the paint above the third corroded window frame from the left? That is where, presumably, my dear savior scraped against while jumping out of the second floor, leaving bloodstains that did not belong to him.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, my matchsticks are wet. I’ll have to wait a few hours. The rain has rather receded now, perhaps I can go out to buy new ones. No, then I could not do it. I must be decisive, like my mother said — like she was.
Every raindrop has its own story to tell, and its own life. I like to imagine each one of them being two roads diverging in a yellow wood, with each step of mine being a way ahead, or backward. Life itself is a collection of every step and raindrop you encounter. My mother used to say that if I collected enough raindrops I would live forever. But she heard the last drop too soon. Far too soon.
And so shall I.
