A Firsthand Account
I always hoped something like this would happen: something terrible. I'd lay in bed, dreaming my parents would get into a car accident or something -- just so I'd have a reason to feel like shit (since I always do, but I have no reason to). Of course all the movies and books made it seem like when I did finally experience tragedy, I'd no longer chase it. But I love it.
I adore it. I'm not sitting in a classroom, learning the conversational past of German. I'm not high off my ass watching Star Trek. I'm resting in the nest I've made in the back of my white van... and writing.
A day ago, a journal would have been ordinary, but now, when nobody will write, I am doing something beautiful. Maybe someday a million people will read this. Without a doubt, any firsthand account of the single most significant catastrophe in human history will be priceless... Well, in theory. In reality, a short excerpt of this journal may appear in a ten pound text book, and the majority of students will ignore it, knowing that it holds no immediate relevance to them.
So maybe I would prefer that it does what I expect it to: it'll die when I do. Something unexpected will happen, I'll be stuck here in this van, and my journal and I will stay here indefinitely.
This morning, I woke up in a soft bed to a bright, consistent sun and chirping birds, not a corpse in sight. I had planned an easy day hike.
My backpack was already put together: an empty camel-back bag, an apple, and a green windbreaker. Before I left, I poured myself a large glass of lemonade. I do this for the sake of good health prior to any hike. I pressed the glass against my lips and the sweet lemonade ran down my throat; it's a beautiful sensation.
My white van waited for me outside, and I took no more time getting there. I turned the keys in the ignition, and pulled into the center of my street. The trail I would be visiting today goes off a short dirt parking lot, not twenty miles away.
The trail itself is wheelchair accessible. It runs along a gentle stream for approximately four and a half miles, laden with moss. In the spring, a variety of colorful flowers adorn the path. At the end of the trail lies a small (but nonetheless clean) lake. There are several beaches that children, photographers, and other friendly hikers can enjoy.
But at the end of the trail, it was just me, submerging a bag, and watching the water fill it. (It's an old hobby of mine to treat the water back home and enjoy it when I can't reach nature, due to time restrictions or car problems or what-have-you.)
In any case, I needed to pee, and I thought the area around the lake was a much more pleasant place to do so than the fallen porta potty I had seen in the dirt parking lot or near the moving corpses I had seen in the adjacent campground.
As a rule, I try to go away from water sources. So I was on my way up a root-covered hill when I stumbled upon a little make-shift hut, constructed of old sticks and the like. I got on my hands and knees, and crawled inside.
It was the type of spot I really would have enjoyed, only a day sooner. A faded ornate rug covered the ground, and a bong sat in the center; there was probably a stash somewhere, but I had no intention of seeking it out. A little battery-powered boombox with a stack of discs was shoved in the far corner, and that was where my interest flew.
The variety of the music excited me: classical, jazz, rock... Not knowing next time I'd get new music, I took the albums and put them in my pack. I hiked the four miles back, unsure where I could go beyond the white van.
When I got there, I took out the backseats and spread out my green windbreaker. (I'm using that as a blanket and my backpack as a pillow.) I didn't know what to do, so I went ahead and played the albums, one by one: first rock, then classical, and now, a sweet jazz standard about a willow and love and loneliness soothes me.
The thing is, I've been playing on full volume for about four hours. Apparently, this has lit a flame of some sort. There's corpses banging against my windows. Luckily, I can't hear them; my music is too loud.
The one thing they do obstruct is my view of the night sky. I adore the night sky. But with them jerking around, the stars flash instead of glimmer.
I guess I convinced myself that what I saw on the way to the trail -- the brand new but fallen porta potty, the corpses in the campground -- wasn't real. I decided it must be filming for some movie, or perhaps a glimpse my eyes simply misinterpreted. I guess I thought it was noncritical enough that I could get away with doing whatever I wanted to do - in this case blast piano solos. This conclusion makes sense: we see what we want to see.
But it's possible that I wanted this. Maybe I knew exactly what was going on this whole time, and made a conscious decision to complete the tragedy I long for. I mean, I'm not at all surprised by the corpses at my window... It seems like something I would do.
It's probably a combination of the two.
I'm going to eat this apple, and I'm going to open that door. I don't know what they'll do to me, but I think I'll be fine: worst case scenario I die.