They found me at Central Park, half naked, beaten to death, with my arm stuck to some thorn sticking out of a wild bush. The police report said that I was probably resisting getting mugged by some bum on the run. Funny it rhymes. I never knew the police had a sense of humor. The real joke is that they're never there on time when shit happens; they'd be too busy writing some loser a speeding ticket or giving a drunk-while-driving hot babe a "warning". Nobody ever gave me a warning, but I think that point has already been obviously stated between the very thin lines. Of all the places I thought I would be found, I never thought I'd be at a park. I must have been out there walking, trying to figure out the point behind everyone's recognition of the "fresh air" cliché. I should have stayed home and learned cooking. I should have watched the World cup semi final. I should have stayed home on the internet chatting with strangers whom one of them might as well have been that mugger who made this final hour possible. I don't know if I was carried to the park or whether I was actually there, but, to sum up, they found my body at Central Park.

Ironically, my "burial" was a loner, so was I prior to October 28, 2014. I wouldn't have been surprised if the priest hadn't shown up, but he did, and now I die on wondering... Am I forgiven now? If that is all it takes then hallelujah, it is but death that I welcome with arms open wide... but I wouldn't bet on it to be true. I reckon it's only human to live on betting on things to be real. The make-believe, monkey say monkey do push that we need in order to pull ourselves together and move on. We're just a bunch of gambling monkeys surfing against the waves leading to the same island called death. Nothing that we do can make it alright, not even confession; especially confession.

My ex was there with nothing but tears for comfort. I've always liked her. Too bad shit went down the drain. We both flushed out our toilets way too fast, but I guess I always had a thing for her still. I forgot to pull the toilet seat down after it was all over. She's carrying a little baby with no father around. The baby's got my nose. With my death, the baby's earned its excuse for becoming a total fuck up. My death is its alibi. The baby's screwed, so is my last name. I hope it gets hers.

My best friend carried my coffin, my shipment box, my expired milk carton. He placed me in it and carried me down there, where the dead await their hour. I'm going to miss you and I'd bet on my life all over again that you will miss me too. I'll make sure I come back and haunt you or something if I find out that it's possible. We'll just have to wait and see, smiled the invisible ghost.

I look ahead only to find a lot of unexpected guests. Friends I haven't spoken to in a decade, friends whom I've avoided, my favorite college professor. People whom I've unknowingly challenged into severe games of psych-poker, or sick poker for all that matters. If life is basically a forever long Olympics tournament where we live to challenge ourselves with all sorts of mind twisting games, then my game is solitaire, I have excelled at that, and the gold medal I was buried with is a not-so-living proof of that. It's a shame how I've lived my life avoiding those beautiful creatures and spent my days waiting for weekends to claim my rest from a dead-end job. Well, I did get my rest now, my unrestrained gratification. Touché!

I look further into the crowds to find my mother standing there all silent. She's either stoned, shocked, or still has no idea what's going on. We never got along, my mom and I. A manipulative bitch is how I've always referred to her in my journal and I'm taking this nickname to my grave, effectively instantly. She deserved much better of a son. I should have gone to war instead of my brother. He returned safe but I wouldn't mind having died there just to make her proud, to make her treat us the same way. I often wonder whether my brother feels the same way. My life was no rollercoaster ride. It was too normal to be true, too smooth to be noticed. My death was the exit I needed to make a stand for myself, to make them know that I woz there. I often told myself that if I had a shorter leg, if I was born blind, if I had brought a million grandchildren into my mother's world, if I died defending my country that I would be loved... but I guess I was wrong. She deserved a John. Kennedy, Lennon, Wayne... they all died for something. They would have made her proud. I've worked the same dead end job, never called, never cared, and been in and out of relationships forever and eventually was described on my death certificate as the remains of a dead single man. To my surprise, with my death I realized that I might just be missed.

It's ironic how people react when they're faced with the slight possibility of death, when everything will be no more, when it's just them and the Al Mighty, the utmost hour of regret and unheard redemption. You regret letting go of certain things. You regret caring less for things that really should have mattered. You regret not looking more into life, appreciating green sceneries. Not learning more about physics and biology in an attempt to praise the lord a little. And the list keeps growing and growing, getting longer and longer until it's long enough to go around my coffin twice and have a little knot tied at the corner to make it look sweet and pretty right before dust covers my final milk carton.

I've allowed myself to be a part of some people's lives and I'm hoping to have left some good memories there. A lot of people who deserved more appreciation are standing there all silent, remembering sweet days that we've shared hopefully. They're way more than the number of contacts with an assigned ring tone on my cell phone. For a dead man, I think I indulge people too far.

Some man pulls a lever now and its sucking my box into the ground. I can only see the clear and blue sky with eternity in its horizons, that I should have appreciated, that I will miss. They're shoveling dust into my hole now and it's become my final material wish to have that act last forever because after they're done you're technically and literally alone, and it's all downhill from there. The shoveling act that probably lasted for a while only lasts for five seconds from where I was lying. David Fincher must have been directing their moves...

And now it's all over. I can hear their footsteps walking away from me, my ending credits soundtrack. Their footsteps are the final sound I should hear right before worms start consuming my leftovers. Their footsteps leave me behind like I'm a dead man that technically I am, their footsteps that will forever echo in my grave. I cry out for them to comeback but I'm deep down there and it's too late for me to pray. Underground, I realized my true fears, my true self. Underground, I started rating things and giving out late, late priorities for people and things. Underground, everything started mattering, everything finally made sense. I'm not the hot shot cowboy I always thought I was. That mugger proved me wrong.

Underground, I found myself.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи on Monday, July 17, 2006 at 9:15 AM | Permalink