There was a man who killed himself on a gloomy September evening that rained heavily. There was no one at his home at this time, or anyone who would have walked inadvertently into his room to see his face melted into his sheets. He laid his head on the pillow, looked towards the broken clock on his desk. He couldn’t see the time as he was visually impaired, although it wouldn’t matter. He closed his eyes and waited. His pillow had dampened only partially before he fell into a deep sleep.
He woke up the next day tired as ever, and went to the kitchen to make some tea. The headache didn’t leave, so he looked over to the counter but there were no aspirins left. Chamomile tea would be a better choice, instead of the black or Earl Grey he would have this morning. The water boiled on the stove while he laid chamomile buds into his cast iron pot. Once boiled, he poured the water in, and waited at the table.
The house was empty. Clothes were piled up in a corner. He decided it was time to do laundry. He decided another day would be a better day to die.
A car parked into the driveway and he clothed himself. A friend came out and said his hellos. They hugged harshly and quickly, like brothers would. He crushed the cigarette butt on the gravel driveway which had already been filled with hundreds of cigarettes. He asked his friend if it would be fine to go out nice café to have some breakfast. His friend had no reason to deny his request, so they drove to the closest “waffle bar.”
At the café, he sat alone while his friend was in the restroom. A notebook in his pocket that was usually reserved for doodles or sketches was taken out. He pressed the lead onto the rough Bristol page and scribbled a few words. He was fond of titles, so in large letters he wrote:
Subtitles were stupid. This subtitle was stupid. I’m stupid. I need to write as much as I can remember. I was compelled to write anything. Everything. No matter how trivial the details, I couldn’t leave a thing out. It was impossible to write chronologically. My mind never worked that way, and memories never work this way. Instead I write what comes to mind at that precise moment. Every memory that needs purging, every stupid thought no matter how insignificant it may seem.
So here I write my cerebral relapse: My falling into the old, the fucked, and my love.