Short Story: Cornered

He gave himself nightmares.

He woke up and slid out.
His pillows on the floor.
Walked into the bathroom, punched the mirror.
Blood and broken glass.
His head hung low like plastic testicles on a truck axle.
The corners of a smile.

Television images flickering in his braincase. He hummed a familiar tune.
He checked his email.

He wrapped a paper towel around his knuckles, a vain attempt. It soon fell off.

He had woken later than usual. But he wasn't late. It was Saturday.
The house was empty.

Coffee.
He poured some raisin bran.

The computer on the table while he chewed nonchalantly. (He hated that word.)
The corners of a smile.

When he was done he took a shower and sang and hummed and marched and stomped and rinsed and washed.

Drying off but the blood was still coming from his hand.

Saturday.
He lay on the bed again, watching television.

He got irritated; he decided to write a letter.

His handwriting, neat. His style, perfect. His meaning, soon to be misconstrued.

It was addressed to no one and he didn't sign it. It read:
"I love, miss, and cherish you."

Then he scratched it out seventeen angry times and kind of angrily wrinkled the paper up a bit, and then with an escalating quantity of anger burnt the letter with a disposable lighter. He had done this a lot, and the lighter was empty after this time, so he angrily threw it away. The lighter was obviously upset, but was aware of its brevity.

The paper, however, was offended, and would have preferred a recycling process.

The ballpoint pen had no opinion on the matter.

The man, however, was very, very angry. That cannot be stressed enough.

He was always this way on Saturdays. Before he did anything fun he made himself hurt. Then there wasn't any time for fun so he just watched TV. Then that got boring so he would write stuff.

Like this.

He would write stuff like this.

Short Story: Routine

Cold.

He walked across the stage, to the microphone.

"I'd like to thank everyone for coming."

Later that night.

He unloaded the car, dragged in his bags. Sat on his bed. Jet lag. Head in hands. His fingers running through his hair. Or what was left of it.

He checked the answering machine: no messages. He glanced at his personal cell phone. No missed calls. No unread emails. No texts. He tossed it aside. His business phone was lit up like a Christmas tree and was vibrating itself off the nightstand.

The bed was still in the corner.

He brushed his teeth while reading scribbles on the mirror. More rhymes.

When he got up, he made a phone call. No answer.

He made breakfast. Well, raisin bran.

And he went off to work.

As soon as he got into the office, his staff bombarded him with questions. He answered all of them, nearly. Then he went to his own office and shut the door. He checked his email. Lots of email.

At lunch, he walked across the street with the guys to grab a burger. They all laughed and made small talk along the way. At the table, guys told stories about their kids, their vacation plans, their life. He sat silently, interjecting solely to provide laughs, often at his own expense.

When he got back to the office he ran around, helping people out. He was good at that. He was good at his job.

When he got home, he turned on the lights and everything was as he left it. There wasn't really much to leave, he noted.

Then he got on the computer.

At around midnight, he stumbled to bed.

He lay there amongst sheets and pillows, tossing and turning. He kicked his sheets off and screamed. He punched the wall, and then curled into a ball.

The next day, everyone at work had new questions for him, and he answered them all perfectly.

State of the Person

I feel like I'm chained up.
Tight collar, back sweating, eyes red, head heavy.
You could cut the chain for me, but I wouldn't have anywhere to go.
Scorched earth.
That's what it feels like.
I guess it's school.
It's not school.
Where to next?

I want to start over.

I feel like everything I am, everything I'm built on, is holding me back. People aren't buildings. We don't need to be permanently attached to the ground; restrained by our foundations. Our foundations are thoughts, not things. Thoughts are easy to move. But, admittedly, difficult to change.

The journey is the reward.

When I don't know how to start a journey, I get depressed.

So I'll sit here, watching television; but, I am not learning anything new.

And that's fine, sometimes.

But lately I feel like I'm on the verge of something big. Bigger than me. And in order to do it I have to throw everything away. This computer. This car. This bicycle. This school.

Maybe that's too drastic.

I have time and money invested in these things. It would be foolish to throw them away. Sometimes we have to settle for "good enough" because if we didn't we wouldn't have the resources to have anything. So starting over is unrealistic.

I don't really know what I mean when I say "start over".

I guess I want my mind to not be shackled to the past. I want it to exist only in the present, because then I can be free. I can do things now, and not worry about the past.

But mistakes haunt me. And define my actions. That's their purpose, after all.

But why do I let things that happened six months ago, six years ago, block new, unrelated behavior in the present? Why am I scared to do things I haven't ever tried?

It's a fear I have to get over.

But in a lot of ways it's comfortable to stay where I am. Some people never grow up. It's easier. If I had stopped development when I was fifteen I'd fit in fine now. Hell, it would make watching Family Guy fun again.

The point I'm making is, I never want to feel like I've stopped learning. I never want to feel like I'm done. Because I never want to be done. I'd like to die right in the middle of doing something awesome. Because to be finished with life, with learning, with growing, with developing, and to wait it out till I die in a home is not what I want.

I think a reason people commit suicide is because they feel like they're done, and don't want to wait it out.

So I never want to be done. Because then I'd be dead.

Steve Jobs said something similar when someone asked when he was planning on retiring. I don't remember the exact quote, but it was like, "Working is my life." He'll never stop. He gets it.

I don't want to settle down. I don't want to become complacent. I want to keep reaching—ahem—for the stars.

But that means that I need to deal with making mistakes. Lots of them. Because mistakes are the best teacher.

So I'm conflicted here, in my current situation: I'm simultaneously struggling with the past, fighting to stay relevant in the present and making an increasing amount of regrettable decisions that affect the future. I guess that's just how it is.

I have to grow up, but do notice that the term "grow up" never suggests a stopping point. It's not like Modern Warfare 2 where you eventually hit a limit. In real life, you keep going up. If you care to.

A lot of people stop.

When you were a kid and you thought about being a grown-up, did you ever think you would stop?

You can answer that.

I'm going to steamroll ahead, and try to learn from the mistakes I'm making—and not feel too bad about making them. And try not to get held back by my possessions, which are sometimes attached to the earth, and difficult to move.

Because a few mistakes that keep me up at night are definitely better than giving up.

New Song