25 11.2: Poets and White Coats (1/2)
'it's been lovely. . . but you're draining my will to live'
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I never thought the concept of a birthday through.
I mean besides the balloons and the overly enthusiastic smiles, it never really got to me how every birthday celebrated is a year closer to my deathday. It never got to me that all of that happiness and all those presents are basically very carefully taken note of.
To me, the idea of death is always linked to birth.
And so I wonder if the sadness we feel when someone dies is equivalent to the happiness we felt when they were born, to the glee we felt watching them blow their candles away, and I wonder if they get as many roses on their funerals as presents on their birthdays.
Because isn't that the point of death? To erase what has been created? To take what has been given? Equilibrium? Physics?
And I wonder if people like Tobias and I are abnormalities, something that terribly disturbs the balance. Because maybe the world wasn't ready to compensate for our loss.
And as I silently watch Tobias curled up in a fetal position in the corner of the room his mother just died in, I secretly hope to myself that he hasn't attended much of his mother's birthdays. I secretly hope he hasn't gotten too happy so that he wouldn't get too sad.
I secretly hope he's okay as I sit on the now-empty bed with Benji on my laps. What happened after the announcement of his mother's death was quite a blurry. People rushed in and about, phone calls to the 'family' members were made while Tobias took the time of his life staring at his dead mother with absolutely no facial expression.
And when his mother was taken away, Tobias didn't do anything but step away and curl into the corner with his thoughts.
And I let him be.
I never thought the concept of a birthday through.
I mean besides the balloons and the overly enthusiastic smiles, it never really got to me how every birthday celebrated is a year closer to my deathday. It never got to me that all of that happiness and all those presents are basically very carefully 'taken note of'.
To me, the idea of death is always linked to birth.
And so I wonder if the sadness we feel when someone dies is equivalent to the happiness we felt when they were born, to the glee we felt watching them blow their candles away, and I wonder if they get as many roses on their funerals as presents on their birthdays.
Because isn't that the point of death? To erase what has been created? To take what has been given? Equilibrium? Physics?
And I wonder if people like Tobias and I are abnormalities, something that terribly disturbs this balance. Because maybe the world wasn't ready yet to compensate for our loss.
And as I silently watch Tobias curled up in a fetal position in the corner of the room his mother just died in, I secretly hope to myself that he hasn't attended much of his mother's birthdays. I secretly hope he hasn't gotten too happy so that he wouldn't get too sad. I secretly hope he's okay as I sit on the now-empty bed with Benji on my laps.
What happened after the announcement of his mother's death was quite a blurry. People rushed in and about and phone calls to the 'family' members were made, while Tobias took the time of his life staring at his dead mother with absolutely no facial expressions.
And when his mother was taken away, Tobias didn't do anything but step away and curl into the corner with his thoughts.
And I let him be.
I let him be because as much as I know that people are supposed to be there for each other, I also know that pain is a private thing. That it needs to be dealt with alone. Alone until he's ready to share it.
So I do nothing and look at everything, especially the bed I'm seated on, the bed that wasn't only the witness of Tobias' mother last breaths, but maybe a couple hundreds' more before her. And that really does for some reason terrify me.
”You know-” Tobias' voice comes from the corner of the room and I do a double-take because I'm not sure I heard right. Is he really going to talk about it? Isn't it too soon?
”I tried figuring out the whole point of this-” His head is dropped between his knees and cradled in his hands, and his long, slender fingers infiltrate his bright red hair strands. ”And you know, it's mainly pain-”
I stare at him, not sure of what to say, not sure if I should say anything at all.
He continues anyway. ”I suppose the only mercy in pain is that one can feel his own pain and not that of the people closest to their hearts-” His voice catches and I try slowing down my suddenly quickened breaths. ”But here?” He pauses. ”I'm feeling everything. I'm feeling everyone's pain-” He sniffs. ”I-I watched her die. For days. I watched her writhe in pain. I watched her in her worst moments. Alone. And maybe, I hoped I was there to make it easier for her.
”But that's not it. In fact, I hated-” He says. ”I hated her.” My jaw drops. He looks up, glances sideways in my direction, looks back down. ”Don't look so surprised-” He says suddenly softly. ”I only started liking her as a ghost. And it's the most ironic occurrence ever, I know.
”I killed myself because-” He starts and stops to inhale. He looks up at me, his teary, wide eyes lingering a bit on my unassuming figure. He then clicks his tongue. ”Never mind actually, I'm sorry, I'm blathering, excuse me-”
”No, no-” I put out my hands suddenly causing Benji to jump off of my laps and onto the floor. ”Please continue. Tobias.”
Tobias throws back his head and looks at me sideways, his throat bobbing. His lips are shaped into what pain would look like. I almost scurry beneath the bed from the intensity of the waves of grief that are crashing toward me and filling the room with its bitter froth.
”It's the most ridiculous reason. I'm truly ashamed of it-” He says, stretching his left leg in front of him.
I blink at him and do nothing else because isn't this the whole point? To show you that whatever reason you'd kill yourself for is ridiculous, no matter how insurmountable it felt to carry it around when your heart knew blood and your lungs knew air?
”I loved my friends-” He says. ”But- but I hated them. Mom and Dad-” He says slowly, in controlled breaths. ”Yet, if I were to blame all of this on someone?” He pauses to squeeze his eyes shut and gulp. ”I'd blame it on my impatient self-”
I narrow my eyes at him in confusion.
”Well, here's the thing about poets-” He says quickly with a sharp intake of breath, resting his elbow on his right knee. ”We're a little impatient, a little too reckless, way too eager to experience, to feel way too deeply, to learn, even if it meant pain. We want- we want all the flavours life provides. We want to live it by our own rules-” He pauses for a while. ”We above all-” He says. ”We crave the freedom to do all of that. Freedom-” He sniffs, pinches his nose, attempts a smile at nothing in particular, fails.
”Well, it wasn't '2019'-” He says using air quotes. ”Freedom meant a lot less-” He says slowly. ”I had a... hard life. I was in a private high school, and unlike all my friends who enrolled because they had the money to, I got in with a scholarship. And my parents-” He shakes his head, sighs. ”They were too hopeful. They expected me to keep up to the dreams that they failed to achieve. They wanted me to be so academically successful that I get another scholarship to Harvard. To become a doctor.