John by Meshael Al Blehed

Posted on September 20, 2011 by

2


(In order to understand this piece, you must first read this explanation.)

What if I told you I couldn’t sleep? I could start ominous and ever so mysterious with a hint of psychosis à la Fight Club. I am John’s inability to come up with an original idea.

I am the clichéd lover of the finer things in life. Drugs, women and alcohol are the three constant pillars of my existence. Financed by betting against myself, I win every time. It might not be the best approach to raise my self-esteem, but it pays for the therapy too. I think I’ve found the word to describe me: Barely. Barely interested. Barely giving a fuck. Barely getting by. Barely alive. Barely there.

I am barely there.

It gets better in the second act, I promise.

I met a prostitute. It wasn’t anything special, but as I was about to leave the room I noticed that she forgot a small piece of paper with something scribbled on it. That paper set off something in me, a realization long overdue.

My future is just an epilogue of an upcoming apocalypse. I never fancied myself a lingering ghost, but a ghost nonetheless. I kept that piece of paper in my pocket. I took it with my everywhere waiting for the perfect moment to read it aloud.

One shimmery summer night, I read those words on the roof so the stars would stand witness to what I was about to say, and I saw the disappointment in the flicker.

Could it be that these words manifested in front of me?

Were they the ones that exhausted the stars until each one fizzled out in an unremarkable death?

Were they the ones that ignited a malicious inferno deep in the cavities of people and turned them into dead eyed monsters?

Were they the ones that terrified the sun into nothingness?

Were they the ones that rendered my loved ones unmoving and incapable of affection?

Did they start something much bigger than me?

Did they sentence everyone to a death penalty?

I’ve conned my way through everything, but I’m out of tricks now.

As I stood on the roof, I looked at the stars and whispered again: “This place is more of a hell than a home.”

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