In the end, it never does (Eric Lafalaise, 2007)

I have this feeling.

My feeling.

This feeling that everything’s not right with the world.

My world.

Every day, I wake up more tired than the day before. My arms hurt. My head throbs. I throw my legs out with the last bit of energy this diseased body has left only to discover that they too are abandoning me. Their shakes signal the end.

My end.

What’s wrong? The answer eludes me. Am I even asking the right question? My uncertain hands pick up the rebel-coloured phone. Who should I call? My family? My friends? They think I’m faking. That I’m faking it! That’s the easy answer, isn’t it? He’s intelligent, he’s able, he’s responsible, he’s like a rock! I do it, why can’t he?

To fake being unhappy. To fake being sad. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do elicit pity. But at the same time, I know they’re wrong. The answer eludes me but at the same time I know what’s wrong. I know what’s going on. It’s this world -- my world. It’s this life -- my life.

I hate my life.

I’m awake for twenty minutes when I sense water aggressively pouring through the pipes. I’m in the shower. And I think of violence. Of feminism and its violent and unapologetic social change, leaving men scrambling to adapt to this new world where they’re left holding their own dicks. Of the civil rights movement and its unintended conception of a hidden agenda, a hidden violence or double standard, boiling within all different races, from resentful whites to demanding blacks. Of me. Angry. Pissed. Resentful. Dark. Brooding. Unhappy. Sad. Angry. I said that already, didn’t I? But this one is important. Anger. And cyclical. It ends. It comes back. I have to eat. Why do we love when we anger so much? I don’t love anymore. To me love is taboo. My love organ (is it the heart?) has cauterized, hardened by years of abuse. Whom did I love? Now that’s a good fucking question. Have I ever loved? That’s an even better one. Do I love my family? Do I love my friends? Do I… love my family? Where are my shoes?

Time flies and silently vociferates its marching orders. I hurry out of the house, head filled to brim of doubt. I hurt. I ache. But I feel nothing. Everything is internal, unreal. Only I know about it. And I suffer. Death should end this pain. Always about violence, isn’t it? Bodies crash into each other. A hand swerves through thighs, a tongue abandons its nest. Penetration destroys. Pain through pleasure. But I feel nothing. My soul is numb. My spirit is tired. Maybe this is life. Or just mine.

I think I’m sick. Or maybe it’s not me. Maybe there’s something wrong. I hope. I feel. Nothing. No one. I am alone. A hand gesture. A stranger. I drop onto my ergonomic chair, cradled by the continuous sound of the office AC. In a few seconds, my headset will be on and I will cease to be me. People yell. And bitch. And I have to help them. Little children. I want to murder them. I want the rapture to swallow all of us whole. Purge us. Clean us. Deliver us. Deliver me. Or these menial tasks will have the best of me.

My name is Eric but everyone calls me nice. Like it’s a disease. “He’s nice”, they say, pigeonholing me into this safe box. I hate being nice. What has it ever gotten me? Nice doesn’t win you the girl. Nice guys finish dead last, right? Only violence reigns. Persistence. Determination. Force. Penetration. Lust. Desire. Ripping clothes off like an animal. Violence reigns. Not the other cheek but the eye for an eye.

Don’t pay attention; I’m rambling again. Do what you normally do. Live. Live your life. Without doubt. Without challenge. Trusting. Smiling. I hate you. I envy you. I don’t know anymore. It’s all a blur. And it’s all the same. Hate/Envy, Love/Death. My world is falling apart. But don’t mind me. My life is my own and of no consequence to you. You fake interest like I fake living.

My little box beeps; I almost don’t notice. A man frantically talks of promises and understandings. In a cloud, I answer him but it’s not me. The Work Me has assumed control. I no longer exist. I am an extension, a representation of an unthreatening entity. But in the end, it will not matter. In the end, it never does.