EPTI took out my cell phone to look at the time. It had been a 45 minute walk from the road where I parked my car. I carefully studied my surroundings, making sure I was content with the site. I had been walking through a sparsely wooded forest, in a remote corner few people would come across. I puffed out a breath into the winter air, watching as the vapour rose up over the treetops. I was standing in a small cozy clearing, with the purity of undisturbed snow beckoning at my feet. The trees were nearly motionless, only slightly quivering from the weight of snow sitting on the branches.
I scanned 360 degrees around the clearing and found no clear line of sight through the trees. I was satisfied with this site. I put down my backpack and took out my last meal: a pineapple bun. I sat down on the snowy ground, resting against the tree trunk. I grinned as I bit slowly into my treat. I always did appreciate the savoury of simplicity in life.
I chewed down the last bites of the bun, taking care not to drop any crumbs on the ground. I stripped off my coat and all my clothing, folding it neatly in a pile. Aesthetics could not be ignored – everyone had their bouts of obsessive compulsion, and this was the time to honour those urges. A shot of cold tore through my body as my bare feet touched the snow.
I reached into my bag to take out a clipboard, a pen, several sheets of paper, and plastic sheet covers. I returned to my previous sitting spot and tried my best to sit down comfortably, shivering uncontrollably as my skin sunk into the snow. Even though I my body had always been quite sensitive to cold, my mind was exhilarated by freezing temperatures. I started to write.
“The words on these pages may be considered to have impossibly greater meaning than any other piece of work I might otherwise create. Context is always important. I have struggled much of my life to dismiss the virtues of art, the waste of abstract expression with no direct contribution to physical improvement. Ironic that my last actions finally succumb to the liberation of expression, in the desperate act to become something people might admire. Or at least I can try.
I might consider myself to be an old-style romantic. I don’t even know what exactly that means, but it seems to apply. I also seem to view the world at a poetic angle. Not in the sense that I write the annoying drivel of words boxed in a fixed format and blindly praised, known as poems. More in the seeking of poetic justice, and the appreciation basic truths. Someone that experiences wildly imaginative bouts of emotion, yet somehow is able to suppress all of it under a hard, cold demeanour. That’s probably what has led me to this anyways.
Of course writing itself is an art form. It is wholly inadequate in the expression of ideas, but it is all I have to work with now. The thoughts we attempt to convey are severely handicapped by any linguistic invention. Short of telepathy, there will never be an adequate substitute for unspoken understanding. But what choice do I have? I try anyways.
I don’t much care if this effort is a failure. I have never paid heed to critics. There is no need to explain to inferior beings who don’t understand my genius. Sometimes intuition is inexplicable, and the innate feelings of one’s true intentions cannot be taught.
I have long considered that I was born as a truly good person – very pure of heart, almost saintly. I was a cautious child, who knew that the path to a nice world lay in the goodwill of people. But as I grew up and encountered real life, I changed drastically. I grew cold and distant, appearing selfish and uncaring. Imaginative? I would normally reserve such reaching claims, but as my final words, I am free of all inhibitions.
Indeed, I have not felt truer freedom than where I am now. My extremities are beginning to freeze over and lose feeling. I only hope that my hands remain warm long enough to keep my writing legible. My runny nose trickles onto the pages as I write. It must look quite clumsy and vulnerable. My ears are probably bright red, quickly as they turn in the cold. Knowing that my suffering will soon end, I grow excited.
I want to recount some of the stories in my head. The events themselves are not particularly spectacular. But these are the moments that stay with me, that I pack in my deepest and most secure crevice of my mind. Poetic scenes.
I was sitting at the bus stop on a snowy night. The glass walls were enshrouded in fog, so that the car and traffic lights outside translated into blurs of light. I was waiting to bus back home after a night at a school-organized ‘ball’. People dressed in formal wear, but of course the event was a typical loud dance floor scene that appealed to college students. University classes had just ended, and students took the chance to celebrate before exams started soon. Outside, the snow was piled high, the hour was late, and the air was chillingly cold. Normally I did not venture to these kind of functions, but I made an exception for the chance to meet up with a certain girl.
As the sky dictated, there was a heavy snowstorm that night, and the girl would not be coming through the storm. The same snowstorm that I endured alone, waiting for a heavily delayed bus to take me to campus. My face was thoroughly drenched in water by the time I arrived. I did not much mind; the pleasure of having a reason to stand in the middle of a blizzard was a pleasure in itself. But clearly, not everyone appreciated nature’s frosty whirlwind. I adored snow for the way it was able to mute all inelegance in the world with white silence.
I stayed for a good while, hanging out with some other friends who had made it. Making the most of the situation, I filled up as much as I could on the abundance of strawberries that was offered. I never did enjoy the party much, nor did I expect to. When I was sufficiently bored, full, and convinced that the girl was not coming, I bid farewell and left for home. It was a solitary walk. The noise of the dance followed me behind my back as I marched my way back through the snow to the bus stop.
So there I sat, alone and disappointed. The bench was cold, easily felt through the thin dress pants I was wearing. My expectations were devastatingly crushed, but I was used to it. It was a lovely night though. One that I shared with no one, cursed to be by myself. Someone might write a poem about this solitary figure, heaped with sorrow, waiting for the nameless souls of public service to take him home. No one would. No one knew the frustration I was plagued with. I guess I might have to write it myself.
Sounding overly dramatic? I deserve one chance. I have shunned sharing these emotions with people. My social behaviours have been accustomed to run on auto-pilot, boarding up any signs of sensitivity. To the rare soul I will open up, ever so slightly, in the hopes that they might be able to offer me solace. I gave them the glimmering bait, but of course, my hints are subtle. My help never came.
This next scenario happened in the summer. There was a street festival near my house. After dinner, I had nothing to do, so I guess I might as well go out for a stroll. I knew if I didn’t, languishing at home wouldn’t much help my longing for closure.
As I entered the fringe of the festival, I passed an old acquaintance I had known since grade school. There are quite a few people in my vicinity that still fit this bill. Sadly, I have unable to maintain contact with them. She was holding hands with a man I had never seen. I made eye contact with my friend, and I dipped my head in acknowledgement. But my legs never stopped. Autopilot again. When I walk, I walk with focus – my legs just keep going until I get to my destination. I passed by, the girl still looking at me. I wanted to say hi, but it was already too late. I was already across the road. The connections would remain broken.
When I got to the festival, I was surprised by the volume of people. I had come here in previous years, but it hadn’t been quite this packed. I slowly manoeuvred through the crowd, heading towards the concert stage to see what people were watching. I avoided eye contact with vendors at the side booths, a natural response to avoid unwanted attention, even if their products interested me. Possibly a bit rude at times, but again, on autopilot.
I tend to walk with an air of direction. The less you look like a tourist, the less likely you will be a targeted victim. I got close enough to catch a glimpse of the singer, turned around, and began to make my way out of the crowd, this time down the other aisle of booths. I emerged from the tightly packed crowds, the whole ordeal lasting less than ten minutes. I began to walk home, feeling slightly silly, and as usual, utterly lost.
This walk would be unsettling for me. While I wish I didn’t have to reflect so much on my life, my mind is relentless. Restless imagination can be painful. I left so quickly because I felt uncomfortable surrounded by so many people. I thought if I were to stop, stand stationary, and simply take in the scene, I would be viewed as strange and awkward. Getting in the way of traffic. Especially pathetic that I was there by myself.
I walked down the street and took a turn into a quaint park path, lined by single trees on either side. I was well familiar with the area. Years ago, this path was completely unlit; the route was short, but I found it immensely unsettling, the embodiment of fear. There was a sense of preeminent danger, that some invisible horror was lurking behind one of the trees. Since then, lights were installed, casting a weak luminescence on the path, and throwing shadows in all directions.
Beyond the trees and the fences, the path was bordered by backyards and houses. Warm yellow light shone through the windows, creating an inviting yet eerie glint. Time passed, and I had grown up. These familiar yellow windows cast a strong image in my memory. The lights were still around, the house’s occupants having grown older. My childhood seemed irreconcilably distant. I was now a man, yet my outlook on life was dim, worn down by sadness and depression.
I had given my mode of departure much thought. Initially I was attracted to jumping into traffic and getting hit by a truck. I was drawn in by reports of so-and-so victim died instantly I read in the newspapers. Instant death? What could be better than a painless finale? Instead, I have chosen to freeze myself in a remote snowscape. I find it much more... dignified. After all, I am a considerate soul, and would rather spare the unpredictable accident of an innocent truck driver and nearby motorists. It also gives me the chance to write these pages.
My time is up. My body has given up - the shivering has stopped. There is no more warmth to burn. I lived, I loved, I metaphorically cried, I died. Farewell.”
I carefully inserted my pages into the plastic covers, each one in its own encasement. I laid them neatly into my backpack. I took a look one last time at my cell phone. I briefly considered turning it off, but then again, no one would be calling anyway. I positioned myself carefully in the centre of the clearing, easing myself onto my final bed.
I took off my glasses, and delicately placed them beside my head. I was nearly blind without them. I stared into the sky. A light snow had begun to fall. What a picturesque fate, I thought to myself. A smile crept onto my lips. There was no greater serenity than what I now felt. I closed my eyes and gave one last shudder.
