Rock Bottom - an Emo PostSubmitted by Spam at 2005-11-16 11:19:47 EST
Rating: 1.11 on 28 ratings (28 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
The weariness of life has got me and it's got me good, seeping through my pores to infect the air around me.
Only a couple more steps to go.
And then I'm there, falling against the rough bark of the giant oak that has long been a friend to me.
It's surprising, I think as I sink into the grass and lean my back against that tree, that more people don't come here.
But then if they did, I guess I'd have to find somewhere else to go to do this.
My tree sits on the crest of a hill that forms one side of the valley and from this vantage point, I can see the entire pisshole town that always seems to be source of my woe. Seems I've picked a good time. Failing light from the sun setting behind is drowning everything in a warm red glow and my eyes squint slightly at the onslaught of a thousand reflected suns from the windows below. The late afternoon sky looks good also, a single childishly fluffy cloud the only blemish on a canvas of deep azure - and even that sits there like the mole on the cheek of a beautiful face, the idiosyncrasy that you grow to love because of it's imperfection. It's the sort of view that would reduce even the most poetic and eloquent of speakers down to the monosyllabic as they try struggle in vain to find adequate prose to sum it up.
I've never taken any pleasure from it.
But then, I'm not here for the view.
I'm here to talk to Him.
He hates me you see, wants to destroy me, to crush me from within.
But I won't let Him. I able to ignore His constant narrations and monologues, the needles and sniping. I can shrug off His scathing pessimism and unending put-downs.
Sometimes though, every year or so, He'll get the better of me and I start to hear a cadence of truth in His endless vitriol.
At times like that, I come here to let Him have his way.
'Jesus Christ, would you stop being such a fucking pussy and drink the rest of that already?'
I know He's talking about the bottle in my hand and for the first time in months, I listen to Him, swigging the burning bitterness until I feel my stomach recoil. Pointless really, this is my second bottle, drinking anymore is like giving a millionaire a dollar. Still though, the fire in my chest reminds me that I am at least, capable of feeling something. Even if that's just pain.
'You went and fucked it all up didn't you?'
If He had a face, there's no way He could keep the smug grin off it right now.
"Shut up." I say, I don't know why I bother really.
'But you did though didn't you? You fucked it, lost it all - The house, the job, your friends…'
He leaves a pause, for dramatic effect I assume, but it's redundant, both of us know what the next word is in the sequence.
On queue, I am bombarded with that face again, the laughter I used to be able to drench it in, the funny smile she gave when she didn't quite get what I was saying but found it amusing nonetheless, the tightness in her jaw that was always a prelude to a fight ...those eyes…
'And now you've got nothing'
'I mean seriously mate - What's the fucking point in you doing ANYTHING anymore? Look at how it always ends.'
'Why don't you just do everybody a favour huh?'
He's right, I HAVE fucked it all up, everything, right the way down the very place that I live. And now I'm practically homeless, jobless, penniless, friendless and joyless. Things I used to enjoy an abundance of. Things I've wasted or destroyed myself. I don't even have the energy to sheild my self with denial and blame somebody else for it all anymore. He's got me. Finally broken me down. I've got no retort.
My head drops and I stare unseeing through moist eyes at every individual blade of grass emerging from the cracked earth I sit on.
Maybe I SHOULD just do everybody a favour?
'Well?' He demands.
I take another swig from my last comrade.
And then something hits me. Memories of my last day.
There can't have been too many people that went out like that, not too many people at all.
And so I smile, my head still bowed.
And the smile spawns laughter.
And I sit there drunkenly chuckling away to myself as I survey the wreckage of my so-called life, a psychological Nero who's instrument is humour.
'What have you got to be so happy about?'
He sounds annoyed.
"Nothing," I say, wiping my eyes, "Absolutely nothing at all."
'So tell me: Why the fuck are you laughing?'
"Because it's the only way I'll ever beat you"