Before the Rain

Eighteen: Death Feels like Death

I now am at page one thirty-nine of Leaves of Grass. My motivation to read the book once again just about consumed myself today, considering I had nothing else too important to accomplish this evening (or really ever).

Adam had not attempted to contact my mother or stop by to see myself, which was perfectly fine. Although his company was always nice and hopefully never under appreciated on my behalf.

So, because of such a seldom and a bit reoccurring evening, I sit alone in my room, the book in my lap and the evil thoughts in my head.

Page one thirty-nine was something that made quite a bit of sense to myself, the poem O Me! O Life!:

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

                                       Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

-

The entire meaning behind this was something not too far off than what was intended for, to prove to the reader that everything is shit for everyone. No one easily subsides from all of the horror and dismay. Nothing was promised so simple. Yet others appear to. The common thought of happiness is not as common, and the evolution of depression is very relevant. However, these types of things are in fact common, and that it is much easier to continue on creating whatever it was you were, and that living is so much better than letting yourself believe the lie of an easy death.

Or at least, that's what I had thought of it.

A few moments later I hear my mother and Adam discussing something clearly pressing in the hallway.

My chest swells at the thought of him here, the overcoming presence of endless ebullience. (That I was now learning to not be so annoying).

He enters my room after that thought, lingering in the doorway, "Hey how are you doing Cal?"

"I was reading Leaves of Grass, you know, the book of poetry you gave me?" I ask him, feeling somewhat strange for answering with a question.

He nods, "Yeah, that's great. What's your favorite so far?"

His demeanor is noticeably weaker, his smile forced and his energy trying.

I frown, "What's wrong?"

"What?" He exhales, "Nothing's wrong, is something wrong with you?"

I roll my eyes; of course, isn't there always?

I brush off his inquires and continue on to him, "You're tired?"

His eyes widen with a foreign realization, "Yes, yeah I am very tired, I stayed up pretty late last night."

I did not entirely believe him, but I was afraid of arguing. So I let myself accept that bullshit answer.