Without Light, I Am

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Why I Write  (E) An explanation of why I write as well as what I believe the purpose of writing should be. #1559875 by Matty Zink

Without Light, I Am
(Word Count: 1634)

Today is the day.

I knew this was coming, it was just a matter of when, and patience has been my greatest virtue. I don’t know how, or why, but I just know that it has to be today. Slowly opening my eyes, it all begins. The room is filled with darkness despite the early hour; there is no sunlight here. My surroundings begin to appear with basic shapes – a rectangle armoire, a square television, a circular globe. These things swirl around the room in a vortex so powerful it seems I should be sucked into it. The back of my throat is laced with a foul cigarette taste that dominates my nostrils. I fumble around the nightstand for a bottle of water, finish off the last warm sip and close my eyes. I’m not ready yet, so I drift off again.

• • •

I begin my day in the usual way, one cup of tea - Earl Grey, two slices of toast - lightly coated in margarine (never butter) and the local morning paper. The aroma of tea has always been my greatest simple pleasure, it calms my nerves and is almost cathartic in a way. I sit at the kitchen table and read while picking at the toast and idly puffing on a cigarette. For some reason I’m unusually hungry, and decide that two more slices may be in order - after all this is a special occasion. The paper is full of the same shit that it is everyday: murders, deaths, disasters and sports, hey wait - how’s the stock market doing? It’s all a joke, and a bad one at that. The paper will definitely read differently tomorrow, big headline, front page, and only one story – my story.

They’ll interview my co-workers and boss, and I know what they’ll say, “Strange fellow, kept to himself, fucked up a lot.” That’s what they always say. What about my parents? Oh lordy, that interview with my father will be a treat. “Strange kid growing up, didn’t have many friends, fucked up a lot.” Sure enough, he’ll be sitting in the plaid chair that his ass is permanently plastered to, holding his trademark bottle of Jim Beam. His fat hairy gut bursting out of a stained shirt, what a sight that will be. I pity the reporter who will have to conduct that interview. Then they will talk to the admissions officer at the university, she will say the same thing: “I only met him once, strange man, didn’t say much, couldn’t let him in because he fucked up a lot.” Of course that bitch won’t word it like that, she’ll sugar coat that whole thing. She’ll invent some technical reason why I wasn’t allowed in, classes all full, didn’t meet requirements, something nice they can print and make her seem innocent.

It’s now 10 AM, time to get ready to go. I have my duffel bag packed, and have my favourite outfit laid out which consists of a black long sleeved shirt, my oldest and most comfortable pair of black Levi’s, and my well-worn Doc Martin work boots. I throw the duffel bag over my shoulder and head out. Looking back, I remember that I neglected to lock the door. Not a problem today though, not a problem at all. The university is a good hike from here, and I can tell already that the sound of clanking metal from the bag is going to drive me nuts.

They’ll say I went mad, snapped suddenly and without warning. This may be true, I’ve noticed my thoughts have become more sporadic lately. I'm not sure if it's the medication, booze, lack of sleep, demons from the past, holes in the ozone layer, or any combination of the previous, but something feels different. They’ll question my motives next, why did I do what I’m now going to do. There is no easy answer. I often ponder the mundane existence of such individuals that I’m heading out to see. How can the world expect me to care about these foreign ‘others’? Starving niggers with faces full of flies, China-men drowning because of a Tsunami, rag-heads blowing each other up. I am not oblivious to these things; I see them everyday on TV. I am not responsible for these things, but you know what, I wouldn’t change them if I could. What value can be attributed to those existing solely in a void of delusions where the world will take care of their needs? What about my needs?

"You're fucking nuts son," a voice echoes from a nearby back-yard.

Going to work everyday like the insignificant peons we play the part of. The man who works in a library and plays solitaire during his breaks. The factory worker who stays in a rut all week barely scratching the surface of life, getting drunk every night just to face the next day, and then, on weekends, goes golfing. The university student who sleeps in class because they're too hung-over, while intelligent people who can't afford to buy a piece of paper are left digging ditches.

"He’s not like us," a man on his cell phone says while passing by.

We could not survive without these people, yet at the same time they're dragging us down by taking away from the diverse creativity that makes life worth living. These people don’t need nor deserve protection, they are social misfits in their own right with a bewildering absence of self-security. As for me, I was simply biding my time, waiting for one of those flukes, jests of God, or something of that nature to appear before me in a cloud of fire. If anyone was to see me on any given day, they would not recognize me. I do not, and never have, stood out. In fact it has been my mission to fit in, or to put it more accurately, not be noticed. Now I’ve had enough, it is time to take Destiny by the throat and beat the bitch senseless. I played my part, now it’s time to stand out.

"You can't talk to people anymore, they won't listen. You have to hit them in the face with a fucking sledge-hammer," a man walking with his friend comments.

Walking towards the university, thinking, smoking, sweating, peering over lush hedges that guard properties on this street, listening to the roar of foreign cars, barking of guard dogs, seeing almost no one but the occasional person who passes me without a second glance, heading God knows where, just driving around, aimlessly hunting the streets in search of their next big thrill - forever looking, wandering, marveling at all the fine things being razed around the city: here are apartments going down, here are offices going up, here is a new highway leading nowhere. Isn’t it all so beautiful? The new generation has arrived, and they are even more idiotic than the passing one.

There was nature and earth, life and water - I see a deserted landscape that is cold and eternal. There is no scent here, no Earl Grey. I stop to light a cigarette. This place is so completely devoid of reason and spirit that my mind can hardly grasp it. It’s a vision so clear and real and vital that in its purity it is almost abstract. The buildings tower so high that the sun cannot penetrate their cold steel and glass exteriors. The only light is a reflection, it’s secondary, impure. The real is imaginary, fact turns to fiction, and nothing much matters anymore. Death breeds life, and I am his messenger. This is what I understand; this is how I live, what I construct my actions around, and how I deal with existence. Man could not change; he was constant throughout the ages, always evil, always corrupt. Generosity was a joke that had it's punch line ruined long ago.

A woman walking by shoots me a smile. I do not respond and let her pass without incident. The weight of the bag numbs my shoulder; I ignore it and trudge onwards.

Everything is mathematics, philosophy is useless, theology even worse. No one is an individual, including myself. Intelligence is meaningless and reason no longer perfect. Justice died when they nailed that fucker to the cross. Fear and loathing is no longer a state of mind, but a constant reality. No one is innocent, sympathy is for the weak, and guilt for the foolish. Everything is wasteful, there are no emotions left. The world is spinning around without aim, just like those people wandering the streets in their cars. Evil is the only constant left, and I am its’ representation. God was never alive, and if he was he never cared. Love is a façade. Everything and everyone is flat, there is no depth, only surface. Concrete city streets, sidewalks, buildings, they’re all unnaturally perfect. Some find beauty in this, what sad lives they must lead.

It is hard for me to make sense of this all on any given level. In reality, I ceased existing years ago. Nevertheless, I am among the chosen. My conscious, my pity, my hopes are gone. I've always believed that Evil is something you are, and something you do. My pain, which was once constant and sharp, is now dull.

The university is within sight. My stomach lets out a rumble, perhaps the second helping of toast was not such a great idea. I gaze up at the building and the pitiful souls walking in and out, all so happy and ignorant. They think a better world awaits them. Oh Lordy, do they have it all wrong. A deep inhalation of smoke calms my shaking hands. The shadow of the building shades my presence. I put out my cigarette against the bricks. Without light, I am; and this will be the end.