This is a fictional piece. Any similarity to actual persons or occurrences is purely coincidental.
Beach. Waves. Big waves. DJ station. Exotic music. Afro-beat. Flowers. Stuffed alpaca with hollowing eyes. People coming out of converted school buses. Sands. Lots of sands blowing right in your face, your mouth, hitting hard on your soul. People in bikinis and robes and floral kimonos. The dancing crowd. The dilated pupils. The kissing bunch. Look at all these beautiful people. You smile at your friend who invited you here. How do I get mixed up in this? You ask yourself.
A bald guy chatting up two girls at a dive bar. Compliments of the girls’ names. Your rolling eyeballs. Lone Star. Another Lone Star. Another. Jukebox. Liquid courage. Laughters with strangers. 3 am. More laughters. Gibberish. Shoebox apartment. Too crowed for three people. People whose names you don’t recall. More Lone Stars. You felt good for a nanosecond. You cried. You thought about the family you haven’t talked to for a century. I had a good time, they said. How did I get mixed up in this? You asked yourself.
Midtown east. Beautiful interior design. Napkins folded like swans. You and your buddy sharing a dozen oysters. Your buddy rambling about greatness of London. He was recently there. He loved it, more than he loved New York. He loved London because of all the diversity. The sound of your eyeballs rolling. He never spoke about his long-distance relationship and his girlfriend living in London. You asked about her. He said she was perfect for him. She was perfect. Stop putting her on a pedestal, man. I am not putting her on a pedestal – she is perfect FOR ME. You went home. Wanna check out this new place in LES soon? He texted. Maybe some other places in the area? He texted. What’s your plan for Wednesday? He texted. Wanna go to a concert this weekend? He texted. Maybe. You texted back. Can you get the tickets? He texted. You threw the phone on the bed and asked yourself, how did I get mixed up in this?
I can’t do this any more. You told the guy with a confused look whom you’ve been dating for a year. You did not give the guy any closure and you were being cruel but your know if you didn’t cut it off at that moment both of you would be even more miserable. You went on with your life, drinking, picking up random people at bars, at events, on the road. You did not return their texts. You are horrible. At least you are consistent that way. You didn’t date any of them. You wanted to date someone to whom you only write letters, of whom you keep little photos, with whom you never had sex.
You dipping your toes into the water. The chilly water. Refreshing. You going in further. And further. Until the water going up your chest. Salty water in your mouth. You want to go further but don’t want to mess up your hair. You regret not taking off your watch and sunglasses. You standing there, letting the strong waves slapping right into your guts and your face. You standing there, watching beautiful people jumping waves. You feeling better. You almost feeling you are cured. Your pain becoming so pronounced that you probably can see what’s left in your soul. It could be something some people call happiness.
Stunning sunset. Even more stunning full moon. A topless girl dressed in flowers approaching you, “isn’t everything so amazing.” You nod, trying not to look directly at her boobs. The fire-spinning guy working his magic. The fire-spinning guy blending into the flames he creates around him. The cheering crowd. The fire-spinning guy shut down by the beach police. You waiting for the converted school bus. You riding back with a bohemian bunch on acid, on mushroom, on weed. The bohemian bunch pole dancing violently in the bus. Hip pop and house music blasting on the stereo in the bus. A child sleeping next you. The mother smiling at you. The kneecap of the sleeping child sticking out of the seating area. The frenzy crowd having a dance-off next to the child’s knee. The bus passing by an EZ Pass checkpoint. The bus not stopped by the guard. The crowd cheering. Two beautiful people kissing each other next to the child’s knee. Three beautiful people kissing one another next to the child’s knee. Four beautiful people. The mother smiling at you. The mother subtly head banging with the music. The kneecap of the sleeping child. The child’s filthy shoes touching your thigh. You pulling the child’s knee towards the seat. The mother smiling at you. The bus stopping. The music stopping. You can’t get out of there soon enough. How did I get mixed up in this?
You get mixed up in this because you want to feel alive. To feel connected. To feel loved. To feel hopeful. To feel less lonely. To feel less angry. To feel less sad. You get mixed up in this because you want your life to matter. Because you don’t want to be a fraction of a fraction of a nanosecond in the infinite universe. Because you want to mean something to someone. Because you want someone to remember you and even miss you after you die. Because mundanity and routine is worse than self-destruction. Because you want to stop pretending everything is fine. Because you want to know why the fuck you exist.