An Attempt Was Made

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Let me just start off with the bitter truth: My days are numbered. But so is everyone else's, for nobody can live forever.
However, my life expectancy would be a lot less than the average person's. Which is completely fine by me. Which is what I've always wanted. And the reason behind it all... well, I'm guilty as charged.

But rest assured, I won't be dead by tomorrow. Nor the day after. Nor the month after. Nor the year- oh well. So far, from what I've known, I'll survive another year without a liver transplant. Acetaminophen kills you slowly, and the damage may not become fatal even after a week. But the necrosis of liver cells doesn't stop, and when the liver shuts down, so does your life.
Or maybe for me, the lethal dose isn't what I had taken, who knows.
But anyway, I'm getting off track here. Right now, I am inside this sort of mental hospital/rehab, and I'm writing this lying in one of the bunk beds.
Why?
Because I have too much time on my hands right now and, as I said, I probably won't live too long. I have studied a lot in the past 10 days here. And today, it's the eleventh day of my stay. Time is something I do not lack here, I have a bottomless well full of it. Plans, however, are something I just don't seem to have. I have as many plans for the day as a migratory bird has collateral.

So I figured, "Damn. I could, like, write a story, paint a picture or something."
But when it comes to drawing and painting, I'm kind of useless without references.
Writing is different. It requires some sort of confinement (like this place, or say, jail) and self-limitation. Imagine you're stuck in a train for two days with nothing other than some crackers, an apple, and marshmallows. It's poetry fuel.

My condition here isn't as bad but I keep seeing everything blurred. Like things that are closer to my eyes. Do I have a case of hypermetropia now? Boy, I sure hope not. I have enough issues already and certainly do not need any more.

Now don't get me wrong: I am poetic but I can't necessarily write poetry. But why does that have to matter?

We're living in a strange time. There's the internet: this bonafide invention, and now everyone is carrying a megaphone in their pockets/vanity bags.
And because the developers designed the algorithm of almost all online platforms to cater to people's wants and desires instead of NEEDS, people are using and abusing the living crap out of it.

I'm a lot like Chase in the sense that I, too, have the skills, knowledge, and creativity but am, more often than not, too lazy to put them to good use. For instance, I could have written 10 short stories in the last ten days because. Just take a look around and especially at the clock. The hands are somehow, moving slower than usual.

T=To/√(1-v^2/c^2): this is what's happening except I'm not moving at a velocity close to that of light.
But simply put, 5 minutes can and sometimes does feel like 5 hours.

Look. I wanted to share my stories, as well as that of others I've met along the way, more than 2 years ago from now. But I never started writing. Or typing (okay, no. I wrote one full short story here on Wattpad and typed out a part of a story on my phone's Notes app).
Hmm. Well, now it sounds decent.
But I still haven't written anything exclusively about me.
To be quite frank with whoever's reading this, nobody, not a single soul on Earth, knows who I am, except me. And no, that's not me trying to sound mysterious, that's a fact I'm stating.
People tell me a lot about their lives. Sometimes I care, sometimes I don't.
But whenever it was my turn to tell my story, I would just say something half-assed and leave it at that. That or I'd flip the conversation on its head.

The internet, however... is a bit more of a safe space (I know what you're thinking: "This guy did NOT just say that the internet is a safe space", but wait. Just hear me out) for me. I can be whoever I want to be, make connections with others while reconnecting with myself, and in the midst of reaping all these benefits, some personal and classified information may find a way out of my brain and lose themselves in an endless sea of spilled milk, which is what the internet seems like sometimes (note that I did not say 'is like').

My life on the internet has been one hell of a ride as well. But right now, it's 5:50 pm and if I don't drink my tea and study for a while, my brain will go absolutely nuts. The bully will rise with a roar, then set out to devour me and everyone around me.
See? This is part of why even though I have more than enough potential to create something that the entire world would adore...
I never created that something. Studying has always been a great excuse.
But fret not, for I have decided that I must create that something. I must also begin soon because I may or may not live much longer.

Like Murakami's first novel, this is not meant to be art or any outstanding piece of literature. It's just the story of a boy supposedly living the last year of his life. Take whatever moral you want to squeeze out of this. Does self-harm sound scary to you? The boy has hurt himself countless times. But don't worry, this time it's different.
The boy is no longer afraid of anything.
The boy is me.

I once read on a website that glaive's lyrics are like pages of a notebook that you tear and crumple and throw away in an attempt to escape from yourself, to hide your dark side. Or like graffiti on a wall, drawn by a madman. Both of these comparisons are accurate. One of the little idiosyncrasies of his songs is the bitter rawness of the lyrics, alongside the use of vulgar slang.

But those songs are still considered art. Why, I, myself, adore a lot of glaive's songs. brakence and 100gecs paved the way, and now hyperpop is a sensation.

Throughout this book/novel/novella/novelette/diary/journal (you're free to pick any word to describe this thing I'm writing) I'll try my level best to be as honest as possible, and even if you fail to find any good takeaway from this, my mission would remain the same: to pave the way for those suffering from Too-Many-Words-Unspoken syndrome to express themselves in an artistic fashion. And these people, if given a chance, can and will create amazing pieces of literature, with or without a moral. In fact, it may and probably will far surpass the works of a lot of authors of this generation.
So maybe, what I'm really trying to say is, kind of an autobiography-with-a-dash-of-spicy-fiction is one of the best genres of literature. I do not know if there is any one word to describe this genre, but one thing is absolutely certain.

Self-expression is art. Like hyperpop. Although these two are totally different things and should not be compared but...
Self-expression through fiction is better than hyperpop. I listen to hyperpop but, to anyone who's reading this, if you aren't yet into hyperpop, don't even bother.  Most of the time, it's not worth the pain. Or if you REALLY want to hear some hyperpop, listen only to brakence, aldn, glaive, and ericdoa. But hyperpop is addictive, and don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Whenever I think that my time here on Earth is limited, I feel strangely calm and at peace. The thought of death and my love for myself, somehow or the other, have become interdependent.
The thought of death is like a cheat code for my brain, a much needed 'brain hack'.
Say, I recall a line from one of guccihighwater's songs:

                                                           I don't really fuck with life I'm just
                                                                                in it for a few

and it immediately reminds me how I won't live past twenty, and right at that moment, I feel invincible. Strange, isn't it?

Sukant, a leftist Bengali poet, has always been one of my favorite poets. Not saying he died by suicide, but he died young. Of tuberculosis.
The romantic that died by suicide was Jibanananda Das. A natural romantic and poet, standing on the rail tracks, not flinching nor wavering for once as a train hit him.

If you, the reader, continue reading on from here you'll only see my worldview. You'll be looking at the world through my eyes. And if that changes or morphs your perception of reality in any way, I shall, by no means, be held responsible. It was you who started and kept reading in the first place.
And I'll be narrating my story in reverse order, that is, I'll start from the present/immediate past before jolting out the distant memories.