Do you ever hear a song on the radio and think, “I want this played at my funeral”? I do. I do that with everything with death in mind: I want to die in this outfit. I hope I go down in hail of gunfire. Did I hug her the right way? Will this be my last glass of whisky? If I die tomorrow, it will be X amount of time since I really, genuinely kissed someone. This is the perfect picture to start my life montage with. That was so good, I would request it for my last meal. I want my last words to be… For a while I thought this obsession with death was emotionally and/or mentally unhealthy. More recently I’ve come to realize death is the most important thing that will happen in my life. Why shouldn’t I be obsessed? It lurks around every corner doesn’t it? But really it’s a loose cable in an elevator I’ll never get in. What’s disturbing is that I’m a little disappointed in that. I’m disappointed in the absence of the elevator. Sometimes I take comfort in knowing that it will all be over. “It” as in everything. “It” as in my consciousness.
It (as in everything) seems as though no matter what I do, it isn’t good enough. Lately I’ve been trying. Trying to be a better person. Trying to find a comfortable job. Trying to understand how other people feel. Trying to figure out how to talk to other people in a way becoming of a respectful, respectable person. And it’s all gone to shit. Actually, it was better when I didn’t care. I was in a better place financially, that’s for damn sure. Emotionally and mentally? That has yet to be seen.
My point is this: If “trying” doesn’t make a difference, what am I wasting my time for? What is the outcome here? Mind you, I’m not some spoiled child who’s never had to work before. I’ve almost always worked 2 – 3 jobs at one time, taken care of myself, been single, been a bastard, been homeless (once in childhood and for awhile as an adult), but I expect life to somehow be different, get better, because I’m trying to make myself more aware. Rookie mistake? (I am only 26.)
When I didn’t give a fuck. When I didn’t give a fuck, I knew how to just take life as it came at me. Druggie roommate spends a week in jail while I’m basically illegally staying at her house? Fine. I’ll move. I don’t wanna date that girl any more. Fine, I’ll just stop talking to her. I wanna date that girl. Fine, I’ll just start talking to her. No clean clothes? Febreeze that shit. And I got by. I got by without the anxiety, and I wasn’t thinking about dying. I wasn’t afraid of it because everything else was fine, and death was just another part of it.
Now that I’m trying (cue “Baker Street” by Rafferty), I can’t wait for that consciousness to go away. Even if I tried not to care now I know that I know better. Where is the fun in that? Even when I’m drinking and find myself getting towards my limit, guilt sneaks up the back of my neck and forms a helmet around my head. I immediately sober up and try to explain to myself what’s happening.
Please don’t tell me this is maturity. Please don’t tell me that this is adulthood. I find neither of those answers acceptable. And if that is the case (what does it matter what I find acceptable if it’s the truth anyway?) then I simply don’t want it. I would also like to know how some people manage to make it through their entire lives without considering any of this anxiety ridden, masochistic request for responsibility.
I am obsessed with death. I am obsessed with death because no matter what I’m doing, giving a fuck or not giving a fuck, it’s what I’m working towards and why does it matter?