[Excerpt from my potential best-seller Under the Influence – All Rights Reserved by D.R Breshears]
Meeting the Madman – Zeke’s Tale
I had always felt the closeness of death within my life, always aware of the fragility of what we call living. I have never felt what my companions so freely take for granted, that inner soul tickling feeling they call love, I call emptiness. My parents loved me, and I loved them, I even felt rather strongly about my sister and about my grandfather. But that love is different, that love is what keeps us alive everyday and what makes us who we are. I have never felt, though, that other love, that teaches you why you are here and who you are supposed to be. I never found my ‘soulmate’, if that’s what you believe in, and I never found a reason to really want to be more than I already am.
It wasn’t all so bad for me though. Some days I not only didn’t feel death knocking on my skull, I felt life tugging at my hair. Some days I woke up and felt so extremely lucky to be breathing, moving, eating, stretching. I mean, if you think about it, life is so completely random and so completely, well, lucky! If you wake up and smell coffee from your kitchen, hear a bird chirp on the tree outside your window, or even feel the pain of exhaustion, you. Are. lucky.
Some days, however, were altogether different. Some days I feel as though it is much too much to get out of bed in the morning. Not because I am sad, or upset with myself, but because the weight of the fragility of the world weighs too heavily on my mind to move. It tends to happen when I am the happiest, actually, when I feel too heavy to act like I should. When I realize that things are going well, too well, and that I am beyond blessed to be who I am and love who I love and be loved by whom loves me, I feel as though I am already dying a little bit, way too soon, way before I have done, said, and seen everything I need to. I would love to be hopeful for the future, but it is so fragile and uncertain and could not get better than this, and I am terrified of losing it all.
Knowing all of this, the intricacies of the way I think, is kind of necessary, I suppose, for understanding why I do all that I do. For example, on my 19th year and 14th day I sat in my new dorm room, much too cramped, and told my roommates I wanted to stay in, and truly the only reason I wanted to stay in was to sit with the lights off and think about my position in life.
Was I dying? Well we were all dying, slowly. But how was I aware of my unique position in life, this impending feeling of death, and yet it seemed not one person around me was? Was I gifted? Was I cursed? Was I crazy? Who brought me here? Who was going to finally take me out of here?
I did that, often, I just sat and pondered. I pondered everything, I even pondered why I was always pondering. At several points I was convinced I was genuinely crazy, and that I probably needed to drop out of college and check into a Russel Brandt type of rehab. I mean, of course, in the British sense and not in the sex addict sense. Lets face it, always-in-his-head-paranoid-tall-brunette-kid-who-always-looks-like-he-is-going-to-vomit-in-chemistry-class wasn’t catching much tail from all the fresh doe-eyed co-eds.
Then, suddenly, but slowly, on my 19th year and 301st day I decided in an anxious fit of rage that I was dying, officially, and that this jackass named Flynn who insisted he wasn’t the Devil actually was (though I have since learned the actual Devil has many faces, most of which you will never see for yourself, and i’m sorry if you do), and that my 302nd day would never come. I was fucking dying, I wasn’t just panicking or thinking I may have a bad bug, I was inside out mentally, physically, and emotionally inches from death.
Enough being vague, right? Give us some details, shit. Well, okay, you asked for it.
See my ease into going under, being inebriated, dying, we all called it different things in time, wasn’t at all an ease. I didn’t have years of small pangs, tiny stabs, wretched migraines and random severe nausea. Which is kind of lucky, in a lot of ways. But when I went away to college, to ‘make it big for the family’ like ma would always say, I started dying suddenly. I didn’t go to the doctor, it was more than that, I was suddenly unable to will to live. I was in pain. I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t sleeping. I really wasn’t even pondering anything anymore, I was just, dying.
There are the pains that are the quick fixes, like i’ve mentioned, the easy way out with a one way ticket to rage town. Snap. A bone broke. But it didn’t.
Crack. Your skull busted. But it didn’t.
I got those a lot now. In college, however, I got agonizingly close to hell type of pain. I got the type of pain that makes Hitler curl his toes in hell, right after he stubs them on Stalin’s big fucking shiny boots. Someone was seriously angry, and somebody wanted me to know it.
It all happened so quickly that not many people actually saw me before my death. I didn’t have time to go home for break at first because of all my coursework and tests and presentations, then when I stopped going to courses I didn’t have the energy to leave my bed. It was just kind of sudden like that.
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