I like walking alone in the dark. I like being the thing that goes bump in the night.
I like being that person who slipped away, who disappeared into thin air. I like the thought of never being heard or seen again. I like slipping quietly, calmly, into the unknown.
A coworker tells me he wants to quit smoking. “Marijuana,” I tell him.
“Just replace one thing with another?” he asks, dryly.
Just replace one thing with another. Places, people, memories, your job, answers to yes/no questions…
It’s really easy to replace one thing with another. Just make sure they have the same weight.
That’s all people ever really miss – the weight of something.
My back hurts from carrying a camera all over the city. And I’ve been getting uglier.
Feeling something, I shave my head again. And then I wash the hair away under cold water, and still feel the skin burn.
I like walking alone in the dark.
The same way I like coming home, and putting on music, and cooking and cleaning, or washing dishes.
There’s a three foot version of myself curled up with his arms hugging his legs to his chest, sitting on the countertop, watching me. Another version of me, but he wants to know why.
It’s been six weeks since I quit smoking cigarettes. I drink more water now and cook all but one meal per week. In the mornings, I lift for 30 minutes before work. I don’t speak unless spoken to. I’m reading again, voraciously, and trying to keep up with writing and photography, when I’m not working on little pet projects.
I stand more than I sit when taking the subway to and from Manhattan.
And soon I can hopefully find a way to volunteer an extra day somewhere.
I no longer think about suicide. I no longer feel hopeless.
And I’m sinking, down, into an abyss. And I can feel it happening. And I know it’s actually happening.
There’s nowhere left to hurry to. No one left to go looking for. Nothing left to worry about.
Like being swept out to sea, beyond sight of the shoreline. No chance of ever being found.
Every minute of every day, you’re becoming something better. But it still feels like you’re waiting for something to arrive, something to come down like manna, or lightning.
A caretaker for an empty chapter, waiting to begin, and become full.
And looking out at night, at cold dark buildings congealed into masses of brick, metal, and gloom, with warm yellow eyes. Right before the walls of sleep close in.
Hoping something is coming down.