I jump down from the top

Michale 2022-03-21 09:02:33

I'm Thinking of Ending Things

I'm Thinking of Ending Things

As I write this, I have just won the National Award. Became the first postgraduate student in our school to win the national award, and the defense was still embarrassed by the teacher. I'm still clumsy, can't deal with people, and still have stage fright when speaking. Self-confidence, calmness, maturity, emotional intelligence, these are not acquired when they grow up, and the country will not distribute them as needed.

Achievements and glory will not give you the motivation to live. I still don't want to get up every day, and I can't find my inner drive. When I find that life is still not going well after I have accomplished a "big thing", I am more lost than ever. Will our campus be okay? I have no idea. Every year, there are still many masters and Ph.D.s who die unexpectedly. I will join when I am tired, and I will carry it again when I meet someone who is warm.

I want to end all this, I want my parents to love me behind the honor; I want men to love my soul, not my body after working hard; I want to lie in bed and read comics, I don't actually like sports. I went to find myself, only to find that it was too late.

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  • Young Woman: [about his onset dementia] I'm sorry that y-you're...

    Father: That's okay. Truth is, I'm looking forward to when it gets very bad and I don't have to remember that I can't remember!

  • Young Woman: Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything's worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth's gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of... Anyway... You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time... Well... Anyway... You're back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness. You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.

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