fragments

hemingway
written august 2014

i used to write stories. i pretended there wasn’t anything else to do other than sit in my room and write until the phone rang and someone called, but no one ever did. in high school, i never had anything. malfunctioning relationships, i guess, and video games, but never anyone to rely on, anyone to turn to. when i was in eighth grade my first friend left because his parents decided they couldn’t stand each other anymore. a year later, another friend left––moved south for the winter and never came back. after that, i was convinced there was something wrong with me, that maybe i wasn’t meant to be friends with anyone.

six years later and i still think that’s why no one answers my messages. it doesn’t matter what kind of message i’m trying to send. it never goes through. maybe it’s blocked by someone on the other end of the line or maybe it’s something about me, something about the person i can’t be because my impatience and stubbornness get in the way. maybe it’s because no matter how many times someone makes me breakfast i can’t say thank you without clenching my teeth. i can’t admit i’m wrong or that i have no idea what i’m doing, i can’t admit anything.

i write about girls i don’t even know, as if somehow laying next to them would tell me anything. like being in their apartments, after everyone is gone, is somehow better than being alone in my bed with only my dreams. i write about the things and friends i wish i could have. i write the backgrounds to the stories i’ve heard and seen. i write because it makes me feel like there’s a reason to live.

after some of this stuff, some of the things that are happening in this world, i’m convinced i’ll never find a reason to live. children die every day so i can sit here and type and drink poison and feel sorry for myself. there’s always gonna be pain, there’s always gonna be suffering, there’s always gonna be injustice. maybe that’s why i find it so hard to stay in one place, so hard to be in an area of consciousness that agrees with me––because i realize no matter where i go i can’t get away.

i think the only reason i haven’t killed myself yet is because i’m afraid i won’t do it right the first time. i don’t wanna have to go through the whole process of still being alive with a bullet in my brain, bleeding out on the sidewalk or wherever i end up. just thinking about it makes my stomach hurt, but maybe that’s just the poison again––wouldn’t be the first time.

last night, i met a gashole and we talked for two hours. he bought me drinks, bummed me smokes, and talked with me about the future. opposite sides of the fight, we were allies of the war. “we’re fucked,” i said. “as a species. so what the fuck can we do?” he looked at me and shook his head. “i dunno,” he said. “smoke?” i took a parliament and lit it, sucking deep and hoping maybe my other lung would collapse. i didn’t cough. i frowned.

when i asked him for his name he was hesitant. “i don’t want you to fuck me,” he said, referring to my being a journalist.

“if i write about you i’m not gonna use any names,” i said. “you might know, but no one else will.”

he pulled me in close. “you gotta watch yourself,” he said. “some of these people… i wouldn’t want you to end up on the side of the road.”

i laughed.

“seriously,” he said. “be careful.”

a day later and i’m leaving for home tomorrow. it’ll be the first time all summer that i’ve been away from gas wells and drilling rigs for more than a week. i might even be able to get some fresh air into the mix. maybe a relaxing moment or two, drinking with my family and pretending everything’s okay; that we aren’t fucked; that the summers will keep coming; that the education wasn’t a waste; and that the faucet water will never turn brown and smell like dinosaur breath.

i dream about being an ant and watching the gas wells and drilling rigs tower around me, scattering my family, their spills flooding my village. sometimes i’m a bear or a deer and sometimes i’m a human, just a regular human and i watch as the grass and surrounding trees burn down around me. before i can be swallowed by fire, someone in a helicopter grabs me and pulls me away as the world explodes. “we’ll find another one,” they say, and i wake up.

people ask me what i do and when i tell them they either don’t believe it or don’t care. “i fight the gas industry,” i say. “i’m writing stories about people who’ve been impacted. you know, landowners.” they nod or say something like “that’s so cool,” and continue drinking. i wish that conversation would continue. i wish people would listen.

i’ve written all this before. i’ve written all of this a thousand times. maybe if i keep writing, at some point, i’ll realize what i’m saying wrong and why all the rejection emails tell me to refer to their website handbooks. i’m probably just like a billion other depressed twenty-somethings and everyone i email is just waiting for me to off myself so my messages don’t crowd their inboxes.

a friend told me i reminded her of Hemingway and i joked about not letting me near any shotguns, ignoring the compliment i didn’t deserve. i wish some of the places i’ve written to would think that––that i was someone worth listening to––even if it’s through cloudy glasses of cheap beer and stories that make psychiatrists juggle the contemplations that precede a suicide. maybe soon the letters will be sent back with checks inside that can pay for food so i’m not eating spaghetti for four days in a row and substituting caffeine crashes and masturbation for sleeping pills. some nights, i lay awake, waiting for replies and others i fall asleep on the couch with a glass in my hand and my laptop open to whatever bullshit i’ve been writing to myself.

i used to post it all online, but now that i understand how writing really works, i’d rather leave it for someone to find, years later. i have a habit of getting into brushes with death––i’ve always admired Michelangelo and the turtle who taught me he liked pizza. i’ve never been to Rome, but the Cysteine Chapel appears to be a close friend of mine in disguise. maybe there’s a novel in there somewhere. someone should write that.

____

fragments like this helped me stay alive
maybe they’ll help you feel less alone, too.

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