It must be close to midnight. The streets are shining with the city lights and a Dublin drizzle. Sidewalks are crowded by youngsters too drunk to walk straight, happy to be alive and looking for new nighttime adventures. The collar of your coat can’t prevent the cold from getting to your throat and you wish the cigarette you’re smoking would last longer. Music sounds through your earphones but somehow it doesn’t move you and though your pace is steady, the walk home is feeling endless. The atmosphere of the evening was great, nice band playing in the bar, enough Guinness to keep your thirst at bay and beautiful and intelligent company. Still, with every step you take, you feel yourself sliding to the darkest corners of your mind. Black is taking over your heart and soul.
Senselessness you have felt before is opening up in front of you, welcoming you into its mortifying arms, creeping up your spine unstoppable, like a lake slowly freezing shut in winter time. It’s not the first time this is happening and you try to fight it off, rationalizing, clinging to the way you felt when you left the pub, the joys of life stored in your head like weapons against this invisible enemy, and it’s a lost battle. Your mind is taking off on a suicidal trip. What if? You have been living here for a couple of months, only registered at the tax office with a phone number and the address that are not yours. What if? You have no ID on you, nothing that could identify you apart from the clothes that you’re wearing and the music on your iPod. What if you were to step off the sidewalk just when one of those mad buses is thundering past? Who would miss you? No family, no relatives and no friends close enough to notice your disappearing. The thought that really scares you is the realization that the only reason you’re not going through with it is you don’t want to fuck up a bus drivers mind for the rest of his life. You think of Werther, Goethe’s romantic fool who put a bullet through his head because of impossible love and you grin. Stupid fuck! You can’t feel you’re walking anymore, you don’t feel anything anymore, but utter uselessness, cynicism towards the fancy cars parked and the streetlights on an empty junction, and the sadness in your life. Cause you know it’s not pity for some dumb bus driver impeding your last step, but the lack of balls to go through with it. You know your life isn’t going to make the slightest dent in the earth’s surface, yet you’re too pussy to assume the consequences. You’re a sorry excuse for a human being.
What if? What if you would go through with it. Is there anyone really close enough to report you missing, apart from your boss, alerted by your colleagues if you wouldn’t show up for work in the morning? You think back to the girl in the pub, how you woke up next to her for the first time this morning, and the way she looked at you. Are you that much of a sentimental wanker, feeling obsolete when she’s not there? Yes you are. She should be walking by your side right now, her feet to the beat of your steps, your hand in hers and you suddenly hear the music in your ears again: “I wanna be with you, just wanna be with you.
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