They say that when a man dies, his eyes become lakes of stagnant water. You can see the components floating there, vaguely aware of their existence, but nothing connects; there are no links, no networks, it’s all an array of lifeless pieces of the puzzle that won’t come together once more. Stagnant water is the worst kind of water; what can grow in a toxic concoction? Because life needs water to survive, stagnant water is the worst kind of betrayal, worse than Cain, and infinitesimally more severe than when Adam & Eve picked the apple off the tree. Stagnant water is a b****, because you’d think that something was growing, that in some corner of those dead lakes, life was pushing through like it always did to make wonderful amalgamations that would eventually build up to a new form of existence. But no, stagnant water is deceitful, because nothing can grow, nothing can prosper, and that is why they say a dead man’s eyes resemble lakes of stagnant water, because the only certain fact is that he’s gone and life isn’t coming back.



Someone once said that it sucks to die; it seemed biased to me because we weren’t dead, how could we possibly know how it felt but it seemed to follow logic. But then, someone else said that no, it wasn’t bad to die, what sucked was to keep living. And then I thought about it and I thought hard and I said “Well, that makes sense to me, because at least the dead get to sleep”. Everyone laughed at that, big hearty chuckles, and I just sat there feeling ashamed because what I had said was true; we move so much, here there everywhere up down, that we forget that we’re human, we need to rest, we need to sleep, and we need to remember to relax because eventually we’ll all become dust so nothing matters in the end, if you really stop to think about it. So while the conversation moved on around me, I kept thinking that all of it was bullshit, all of it was nothing that in the end would make a difference, so I just sat and I ate my salad and I laughed with everyone else, hiding the fact that inside I wanted to scream so loud that their eardrums would bleed steel.



When a body drops, it falls like a boulder. In movies, they make it seem so graceful; an elegant tumble to the ground and then it’s over. But when a body really falls, when the life has been stolen from the vessel, it falls so awkwardly, it’s almost laughable. But then you realize that the person you wanted to laugh at is someone’s brother, someone’s friend, and then you feel all shitty inside because you realize what you’ve done was so incredibly horrible and unforgivable. I felt like dying when I realized my first instinct had been to laugh; still do. My salad tastes like dirt now, the air around me is stale and venomous, and all those laughs and all those smiles, they’re all fake and I know this yet I’m still here. So I decide to act. I get up; I can’t eat my salad anymore. It goes in the trash and with it, all the pretenses that I held. Life is never the same when you see a body fall to the ground afterwards because you’ve seen something so sacred and forbidden that, on some level, it destroys you. My friends—can I call them that?—all yell after me; they have to act like they care, what would everyone else think of them? I ignore the calls of fake friendship, of false bonds and gilded love and make my way away from all the disorder, all the s*** that just makes my blood boil.



The wind outside is cold and I realize I’ve left my jacket inside but I’m too much of a punk to do anything about it so I suffer in silence. Biting cold, really. I shiver but, seeing as I’m thinking, I realize it’s not because of the cold. Life bustles around me; people walk to work, to class, they hold hands, they laugh. And I realize I’m so sick of the charade, of all the facades I have to put up to be able to deal with that look I get when people realize who I am. And then I realize I should’ve been the boulder. I should’ve been the one to fall. When that thought hits me, it’s like I can’t help my body as it weeps so bitterly. I’m in the middle of the pavement, but I couldn’t care less; my body refuses to listen to my pleas to move. I thought I had dried up my fountains, but it seems my body will always find tears for this.



I should’ve been the boulder. I pick up a pebble that catches my eye; it’s shiny and it sparkles and for a moment, I’m mesmerized. But then, the wind picks up again and the pebble goes away. I can’t help but think it’s not the only thing the wind has taken from me.