It was only later, he realized that these all was nothing more than crop of boredom. He had already had such realizations, of those he thought most crucial, however this one, certainly was the most remarkable one – his whole life, all of his actions was cultivation of dullness. A wasted harvest. He was never enthusiastic about anything. His mother didn’t give a birth to a flesh, a pounding heart but instead to a soulless machine, a construction. He was always aware of this inborn deficiency, however, never was able to alter it, surprisingly or not, at times, he seemed satisfied and more than that, he felt superior.
How much can anyone ever would know about the pain in his heart? How much can anyone hope to understand him who have suffered a profound grief, countless deprivations, and more unbearable disappointments than we ourselves have known? He always knew that if he ever wants to jump off the edge, there is nothing that he can hold on.
He was a man who dedicated his life to others; to a woman, sacrificing everything to her, of whose love he was never sure; to his work, with what he was never satisfied and fulfilled; to his friends, who always looked down on him, betrayed on him, who made him feel inferior. But “how” he was asking now, extremely late though, “how could I be blinded?” Who could blindfold him? God? That he didn’t believe? Or he believed so much that he wouldn’t blame it all on him? It was ennui. He was bored. As many people. So that he unconsciously created a perfect story (if that is possible), a flawless, innocent drama, as immaculate as a wedding suit. He drowned himself in complications, deprivations, complexities, he welcomed calamities, disasters. So that he stumbles and stumbles, over again, having something to be distracted with and never gets bored. Something must have happened. He was on his knees always for something to happen, even a betrayal, a disgrace, a humiliation, a delirium, but at least something. He forced himself to love, suffer, be beneficial, be respectable and all for what? To conceal enormous absurdity of his existence. To conceal his innate inability to live.
He felt himself falling from an abyss into nothingness, he felt himself in an unimaginable deep solitude that he thought of suicide. But something was always there to drag him back from this frightful contemplation: “It would change nothing, it was a self-pitying reaction of an offended man and thus, no one, certainly no one would feel sorry for this death”. What he realized was that he felt stronger with a sudden wave of anger, fury and rage that came from an unknown source. He had sense of revenge. A revenge? For what? He didn’t think about it much.
Whenever he took a walk, he had a feeling that he left himself behind, or evaporated into the air, he became the sky or clouds, he was reduced to be a street, a bench, a lamppost across the street. He didn’t notice people around him, or they seemed as fragments of his imagination. He shrank to the smallest unit, he became nothing but existed everywhere, almost like a universal eye. In these aimless wanderings, all places became the same and it no longer mattered where he was. He was nowhere. And this, finally was all he ever asked; to be nowhere.
It started like almost an unnoticeable insect bite. In the beginning it didn’t hurt. Later it made a slight sensation. It got bigger. It changed its color. Then became swollen. It started itching. Then inflamed and pus came out. It got bigger and bigger, and unbearably itchy. It developed to the point that itching and inflammation became the only sensation of all. There was nothing else. A big wound. Lethal one. But only it wasn’t something physical. It was me; I became the wound itself.
Yesterday nothing happened. I got several calls. All are my enemies. What they want from me? They are like lice. Once they get under your skin, it is impossible to get totally deloused. Scratch until blood comes and it is no help.
Springfield XD 9MM. It is an excellent handgun. I got it from an interesting guy. He is not interesting actually, but he somehow drew my attention; I gave him a speech and he listened to my bullshit without interrupting me. Anyway I like this gun, it has exceptional accuracy and an easy-to-learn trigger. The sights are clear and fast to use in all lighting conditions. I don’t know much about guns. I would never have thought that one day I would need to use one. But once I hold it tightly and shoot, I must realize it’s worth.
Another day. Monotonous additions tacked into each other. What I am waiting for? It is enough that I humiliated myself. Not being able to live and not being able to die. There should be an illness or condition as such.
I refer them as clowns. Because they are really funny. But there is something about this fun that turns my stomach, makes me feel sick. I laugh at them for a while until a sudden burst of disgust. They seem miserable and desperate to me. No, no, I shouldn’t be deceived by their misery again. Enough is enough. My father is a clown. My wife too. It is hilarious.
I was almost tricked by myself again. Poor clowns. No… I am the poor one. How naïve I am! This is my punishment. These clowns cannot be changed. This is about their creation. It is something fundamental.
Nature of beings is irresistible. True nature doesn’t show up until meeting the proper circumstances. Remembering the fable of “Scorpion and frog” is very appropriate here:
A scorpion, which cannot swim, asks a frog to carry it across a river. The frog hesitates, afraid of being stung by the scorpion, but the scorpion argues that if it did that, they would both drown. The frog considers this argument reasonable and agrees to transport the scorpion, but midway across the river the scorpion stings the frog, drowning them both. The dying frog asks the scorpion why it had acted in this way, to which the scorpion replies: “It’s in my nature, I couldn’t help it”.
It is very interesting that recently I remembered the story of Herostratus. No, I wouldn’t be able to set a fire on the Temple of Artemis, one of the wonders of the Ancient World. No way! I just want to kill some clowns. That’s it.
I set everything ready. I am ready. It will be a short evening walk. Only difference is that I will be with a gun. I don’t even know why I am writing all these down. By this I am talking to myself, I guess. This human nature! This morbid obsession! The urge for talking. Can’t we just shut up? Apparently no.
The ineviatble end is coming. I had a feeling that the rage I was burning with would extinguish itself by time. But no. In opposite I am hardly keeping myself from not running to streets and shoot the crowds. I need to be patient and follow the plans.
Some years ago I used not to think of anything which is concerned with the essence of being or the true meaning of existence or boredom – the lifelong burden. I have never blamed myself for that, yet never recall those times proudly. At that time, I was experiencing the blissful virtue of unawareness, I was not ignorant about thinking but was just incapable of that. Then I got “sick”. I mean I became conscious of “all”, so I felt sick. If only, I could carve my eyes out, or turned to be a deaf ear. This is the only way to be healthy. In fact, there are people who prefer another way. The filthy, immoral, shameless way. What includes this way? Let me tell you. You have to be dishonest to yourself, so to everyone. You have to be the master of lies. You need to hide your beloved lies even from yourself. Here you go! Only by blindfolding you can succeed to be healthy, otherwise how can you ever do this with your open eyes and sharp ears?
Severity of illness is growing, as I expect. I am now even not able to distinguish the days in present from those I lived out. I am stuck into the same, annoyingly repeated hours which my mind perceives as eternal continuity as it gradually loses sense of time day by day. I have nothing to tell, and am not willing to hear anything.
I am a vacant stare of a dog. I am the first symptom of a terminal disease. I am an unrealized wish of a dead man. I am hysterical laughter of an unstable mind. I am a slave in a tormented soul. I am inexplicable disbelief of a prayer. I am a credible lie of a prophet. I am prolonged praise from mouth of a humiliated man. I am worthless flesh embedded in time. I am the guy for whom there is nothing serious, nothing sacred. I am an example of the degradation of existence. I am frustrated yet blessed.
“How can I trust you?”
“You payed me enough. Besides you are not my only customer.”
“I actually don’t care, but what you say is somehow convincing.”
“Don’t worry, this is what I do. Yesterday I sold 2 guns.”
“Yesterday I didn’t sleep a wink. Actually it’s been a while that I haven’t. It is not a complaint, don’t get me wrong. We don’t know each other, I know. I am just a bit lonely. I usually write a diary. I mean I do sometimes. I will not add to it anything today. I talked enough already. I have difficulty to contain myself when I see these irreplaceable creatures. Take a look at them. They seem so important. Don’t you think that they all aware of the mere fact that they are pretending? They don’t get tired of it? How? Do you know by any chance? Do you think they really feel something? They have a mechanical vibe. You think I am crackhead, it is fine, but I have the impression that they operate through a button. Shut on and shut off. Shut on in the morning. Smile at your colleagues. At your boss especially. If you are boss, it is okay to have a quicker-fading-smile anyway. Then work your ass off. So that they throw some crumbs in front of you and make sure that you get a muddy puddle too. Then they eat. Eat and fatten. So that they operate better. They have personal relationships as well. Surely! They are mechanical too. Night outs with friends or lovers, or bringing up a child, or taking care of a grandparent. How come they don’t get into a crisis? An existential one. Impossible, right? They work with a button. Don’t you believe me? Otherwise it’s not humanly. You think I am sick? What if I tell you that I am the only sane one? Out of a clear sky there will come a day when they will all be crushed under their own weights. But of course, every of them will survive it, they will not go nuts like I did, you know why? Or how? Because they are dishonest. To everyone, including themselves. I look at them and see nothing worth liking. I have zero compassion for them. You think I am envious, don’t you? Might be true. They live and seem satisfied, even though I consider them pretentious. And me? I despise myself for not being one of them? I camouflage my disability and inborn defects by displaying anger to them which originates from jealousy? Then what do you suggest me to do? What if I really want to kill some of them? What if this is the only thing in Earth that would satisfy me? You know I didn’t talk to anyone for months. No one would listen to me. Or worse, they would listen just for the sake of waiting for their turns to speak. I don’t want to hear anything. My wife calls me hundred times a day. Elsa. I got rid of my phone. Emil calls me too. That bastard! He refers himself as my best friend, meanwhile sneaking into my wife’s vagina. Elsa tells me that I am paranoiac. Maybe I am. I think this is what they call you when they deceive you with a big smile and you cannot prove anything. You become a paranoid, as they call. They watch you as you drift into craziness and madness clutching you in the neck. Never enough, you get a label; madman. When you know things in theory and don’t experience them yet, there is a huge chance that you are still sane. Once you start experiencing them, in first hand, over and over, you become numb. An example of psychic anesthesia. You don’t feel anything. In fact, death would be more tolerable. I mean respectful. You are laughing. It is fine. To you I am crazy, I know. But look through this window. Streets are full of sick people. Give them a nice proper gun and they will go on shooting each other forever and explode their brains out without a blink. Then there would be an unearthly and wicked loud laughter all over. An infectious hysterical laughter. You understand me, I know. But still it eats me up inside that I can’t express myself. Or I overdo it, so that words deviate from their meaning? What I believe is that words cannot express everything. Their power is exaggerated, overrated. The story is not in the words; it’s in the struggle. For example, how can I express what I feel (or felt, since I am numb already) towards Elsa? Love? Attachment? Desire? Obsession? Monomania? Impulse? Passion? Need? None of them or all? Afterall, nowadays people don’t love each other, what they do is just pleasing each other. I have every tiny detail about her in my mind. Rattling sound of her dress is still in my ears. And how she was trembling in pleasure in my arms with her intoxicated half closed eyes. And yet, when I am not with her, I almost immediately forget about her. I cannot surrender to her. Why I am telling you all these? You are right to ask. Why we people enjoy loading up meaning on things? Are we afraid of the fact that they are actually devoid of meaning? That all the things we are thirsty to do is just a moment’s illusion? I am sorry for confusing you and putting seeds of doubt in your mind. I know, people don’t like that. They avoid it. It is actually a constant endless loop of remembrance of this existential burden and automatic ignorance about it. When they don’t ignore it, they go mad. Look at me.”
People think I like myself. That shows how little they know about me. I know I am a great guy. I have been just unlucky. When the soul suffers too much, it develops a taste for misfortune. This is exactly what’s been happening with me. After some point, I started enjoying being tormented. Also I think it is natural to want to see others being tortured. I really want to see them croaking to death.
No, no, no. I am the most naïve person in this world. I have a child innocence. I am clean at heart. I forgive myself for everything.
People are the same everywhere. Their lives too. There are not many scenarios. They even look alike physically. It is ridiculous. I saw this woman today on my way to firearm training. She really looked like Elsa. Except for the skin tone. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, I was amazed by this incredible resemblance. Fortunately, the guy next to her didn’t look like Emil. I could slay these two strangers out of a sudden hit of anger. I actually imagined doing that. I also imagined screaming at their dying corpses “I am sorry but you just reminded me of my wife and you look like my bastard friend who fucks my wife in my apartment’s toilet”. I didn’t shoot them. In any case, this is what I am going to do soon, but not today. For everything there comes a time.
For me there is neither Monday nor Sunday: there are days which pass in disorder. Nothing has changed and yet everything is different. Now everything follows with a dead certainty. I can’t describe it.
I came to an understanding of how I survived till now; an immense hatred kept me alive… I would live for thousand years if I were certain of seeing the whole world croak.
Every expected day arrives.
The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that things go on the track, only to get better. Today weather is beautiful, birds are chirping. I feel like they are singing an incomprehensible yet wondrous divine chorus. No vulnerable thoughts anymore. This is a death march actually, what they are singing. My whole attention is on this cold metal, that gives an uneasy feeling to me. I sip my coffee and check the time.
How can I stand with others when the things that detach us are enforced since birth? When this separation haunts me day and night?
In the next episode, I found myself pulling the trigger over and over, relentlessly, discharging a bullet rain into the crowds, gnashing my teeth in anger mixed up with fear. In those vey moments, they all saw reflection of death in each other’s eyes, the eyes that almost popping out of their heads.
It happened very fast. Everything. The bullets traveled so fast. They tore apart the flesh so fast. A vortex of dust rised above, hiding the clouds. A constant scream of madding crowd of clowns and of police sirens drilled my ear canals. I leaned back of my head to the wall. A head that was swinging over this immobilized body. A chunk of meat. I tried to avoid focusing on my stomach; it was so warm and wet. I decided to see it: A fountaine of discharge. A death flood. A red river, raging wildly down the floor. I felt the taste of death in my mouth. It was salty and sweet, had a bit of metallic taste too. At that moment I understood that I was not going to live forever. It takes a long time to learn that.
A great peace descends upon me. A peace that dissolves in my arteries and veins. A peace that is inexplicable, surely an individual experience. A peace that is very cruel and ruthless too. It draws me in. How astonishing it is!
I am sure that I killed seven of them. I remember seven faces. Seven heads. Seven screams. Seven noses and seven pair of eyes. I am dying now. It is a happy death. No it is not only me dying; The world under my feet gives its last breathes too, choking by its jagged chains, begging for one more breath, blinking its wretched eyes; the eyes in which there is not the slightest sign of life. The world exists with me, within me; and now I see world dying, rolling into undefined void of nonexistence, into the unconceivable dimensions where it casts off any human touch. It becomes unreachable, unattainable substrata floating in the dark cosmic waters, where time again withdraws into God’s womb. World ceases to live in this silent day, suddenly but slowly; the ground is still intact, it doesn’t split in two, it still carries and bears to the weight of people, buildings, trams, rivers, mountains, forests… But it happens; lava eats up the world, absorbs it till the tiniest piece, swallowing the last drop of time. I pull the World into my death. I buy death for two; we are accountable for each other’s absence.
You think it will never happen to you, that it cannot happen to you, that you are the only person in the world to whom none of these bad things will ever happen. You hear of tragedies and read about misfortunes, they are so real yet not convincing, no way that you might be the victim too someday. And then, one by one, they all begin to happen to you, in the same way they happen to everyone else. You realize that there is nothing special about you. You have struggled into existence and now silently and slowly slipping out of it.