This Boy's Journey

Chapter One: Anti-Matter

So here I am, sitting at the edge of existence, and by that I mean the blank page document on my MacBook. It's not the writer's block that prevents me from journeying forth into the great unknown, point of fact, I have the exact opposite of that problem. I love writing, I can write on end without fail, without ever running out of ideas. A hamster wheel my mind is and at the same time, it leads me nowhere. For you see, what I write manifests into reality. Bold statement, yeah? Well, it happens so much that even my skeptic mind has no choice but to believe it. If I write about a red balloon, my mom will call and tell me about the French film The Red Balloon, or if I write about a future where my main character watches a Legend of Zelda film, Nintendo will undoubtedly announce the production of Link's first adventure to the big screen. Sounds amazing, right? So then why do I want nothing more than to end it all? Let's dive in:

I have severe depression, but that's not the sole cause of my current predicament. I've had to deal with this since I was in the fourth grade and its become apart of me, like a deep scar; it's ugly and you learn to deal with it. It has more to do with my other condition. Despite my supernatural abilities, it doesn't really help me in actual life. Yes, it's cool to see my writing literally come to life, but it's all at a distance, close enough to see and too far to touch. I can't affect my actual life. It doesn't help me get jobs or get a book deal for my sci-fi manuscript. It doesn't get me love or money. They're like illusions; entertaining and ephemeral.

No matter how hard I try and dream of being the next Philip K. Dick, it feels like the universe conspires against me, revealing before my very eyes every wish I could dream up except for my one true wish. In that way, it's more of a curse than a blessing and it pushes me to the brink. I'm left without much recourse except to escape this world. I've learned from my own writings that this reality is an illusion itself; it's a place where we can hear, see, smell, and touch, but that doesn't make things real. You can touch a rainbow, but that doesn't make it any less real than the rain. The real world is that of consciousness, the imaginary worlds that we dream up in our mind's eye. We bring them forth into this reality and they reshape it at will, and if that's proven true, why then can't I get mine?

I get up from my padded spinning chair in front of the page in which I've just written my letter. It's not your standard suicide letter, something about that feels hackey to me, it's merely a last will if you will, where my personal effects and money will be going upon my death. Most of it will be going to family, a couple friends, and the rest to charity, and I go about cleaning my apartment. It might be a bit of a contradiction, I know I won't be here shortly, but when they come to look for me I don't want them to see the current state of domestic repose. I've got clothes spread out in piles of my room, bathroom towels on the floor, unwashed bowls in the sink; this is one of the ways in which my depression manifests: I don't have the energy for anything save for writing. Getting out of bed, brushing my teeth, taking a shower, talking on the phone, et cetera ad infinitum. People always say to hold on just a little longer and that things can change, but I'm tired of waiting. I've waited long enough.

Once I'm done sweeping, mopping, wiping, and sorting, I return to my room with my posters of my inspirations: Langston Hughes, Grant Morrison, Mary Shelley, and the like. I've got books neatly ordered by genre, they kept me going on, my television, which I mostly use for Netflix and gaming between the reading and writing, and my bed, of course, my true home.

I walk to my bedside table where a bottle of Ambien stands next to a bottle of Jack Daniel's and my thoughts turn to all the boys I unrequitedly loved before for some reason. Perhaps it's my mind's attempt at finding a silver lining through this dark cloud I' min. It's not a long list of mine and only two names spring forth from the haze: Jose and Michael.

Jose started out as a friend of friends I had who I didn't have much in common with. He was attractive, like Adam Levine hot, but his head was full of hot air...like Adam Levine and I avoided him like the plague. He, however, pursued me. He wanted me to hang around him because I fascinated him and eventually I caved. We spent time together, we became workout buddies, had movie nights, and sleepover nights, then those nights got physical and I caught feelings. The issue with him is that he's that kind of guy that would bang anything that moves, but he only loved girls romantically. Me, being the insecure nerd type, craved his affection and wanted him to care for me in that way, but he was incapable of that and I had to leave for my own mental health.

I shared a deeper connection with Michael. He's not the most attractive guy, he's tall and lanky with a jaunt face, like he was a descendant of Ichabod Crane, but his mind made him beautiful to me. He's an actor, local plays mostly, and he was fantastic. He had that sort of fearless unawareness of his presence that was captivating to watch and be around. So many people are consumed with how they look (myself included), while other people try so hard to not care, as if making any attempt to make an effort is an extreme case of vanity. Michael understood things, he understood me on a level that no one else has. I could talk to him about my favorite novels, existentialism, comic books, the decay of pop culture, and movies that are so bad that they're good. Where Jose liked me physically, Michael liked my mind and hung on every word when I spoke and yet he wasn't sexually attracted. I have the distinct inability to finding someone genuinely interested in all sides of myself. People much prefer me in doses.

I pour a handful of the pills in my palm and count them. I've done a lot of research; I've only just started taking them so I haven't built up an immunity to them, but it's not an exact science. In this case, more is more so I count and make sure that I have twenty to take and I stare at them. I'm not sad about it, I don't see this as a sad thing per se. I just want everything to silence. The noise I create in my work reminding me how powerful I am and in the same breath how powerless; the hard work I've done at menial jobs, zapping my artistic expression; the lack of appreciation I'd get from going above and beyond; the draining financial and spiritual toll that is the life of a freelance writer, and the failed attempts at love have all added up to not much of anything, and I don't have the energy to go on.

I twist off the cap to the Jack Daniel's. I'm not a drinker, someone gave this to me a few years ago as a birthday present not knowing that small detail. The writer in me wants to build meaning about how even the things you least expect have a purpose, but when you're staring down the barrel of oblivion things are less poetic. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a few seconds before going through with it when I hear the Batman: The Animated Series ringtone from my phone on my dresser at the other side of the bed. I look at it for what feels like a lifetime. There's no need to answer it; all of this is about to go away and my petty issues along with it...and yet curiosity gets the better of me. I put the bottle down and walk over and grab my phone. I read the name on my screen. It's Michael. I haven't heard from him in nearly two years, and I walk around my bed and accept the call.

"...Hello?" I ask in a groggy voice.

"Eli!" he says out of breath, as if he's been running. "Long time no talk. How are you?"

"Oh, good," I say, obviously lying. What is good anyway. "How are you?"

"Good, good," there was a pregnant pause, as if he just wants to cut to the chase and be respectful at the same time, "I actually had something I wanted to speak to you about. Are you free for lunch today? Say 0300 hours?"

"Uh...I'm free today, yeah. I can do that."

"Sweet! Meet me at the Houndstooth Cafe and we'll talk then. Later days!"

We ended the call and I was left standing there analyzing my thoughts. I wanted to die, there was no doubt about that, but as prepubescent as it sounds, I still liked him. He was the only person I could truly relate to. If I told him about my metaphysical abilities, he wouldn't question it. He'd believe me. His mind is that open and I wouldn't feel the need to hold back when discussing such high concepts.

The problem with eccentrics like him (and like me if we're being honest) is that they're unreliable. When I'm in his presence I feel like I'm the only person on Earth alive. He makes me feel special and understood in a way that others just don't. They look at me like a fish in a fishbowl, whereas with him, he's in here with me, swimming around and exploring fake castles. The reason why we could never be was because he was fickle. That's the nature of an artist. We become obsessed with new things and they become our entire worlds. Books, video games, paintings...and people.

Michael fell in love with someone else, Darla, a pixie dream girl with the substance of a Salinger novel. I knew he was in love because he could focus on her for extended periods of time, unlike me. She never appreciated him though, not like I could—I know that makes me sound like Joe from You, but it's the truth. She's a woman of her own mind and no man could rend her from the clutches of her photography. Michael would always come second and that's what kept him hanging on. That's all we have sometimes, created stories to keep us holding onto the cliff's edge.

I look at the pills in my hand and then set them back into the bottle. I'm not going through with it, at least not today. I need to know what Michael's news is and if it's worth pulling myself up and starting this endless quest all over again.