The Note

Or

Nothing Onerous To Exhibit

Remission. Counted to twelve and then opened my eyes to the dark. Having swallowed all I could stuff in I already felt happy as ever. More satisfied, if I dare say. There was nothing else to do but wait and wait in silence I did, as I had wanted all along. I was done with anticipating.

The Parents. Almost too hard working not to know they were risking their health and their connection with their offspring. Warm cries for a hug that was never given. Excellent academic performance that didn’t deserve well done. Mum said she didn’t have anything to wear thus sealing my school award with her socially justified absence.

The Lover. The first young love that’s full of energy and desire for no future other than the present. A second one unaware of being a replica. Both to end in betrayal. Leaving me feeling used and abandoned years before realizing all that might have been my inadequacy.

The Friends. The friends had been a girl my age who very soon forgot the life oath we had taken and refrained from showing at least some sort of dissatisfaction when her family sent her a summer morning, too late, to show me we were not to spend that holiday together as had been the case the year before. Something to do with… somethin’. A young male schoolmate with whom we used to run all day long in the streets or do some real running in what we called the neighbourhood’s championship. But then I used to win all the time and last some odd feelings of wanting to see him every day poisoned me and stopped running altogether.

The Colleagues. Wild, ferocious even vultures, alert 24-7 with whom I had morning coffee and snacks in the back room hoping they’d accept me in their knowingly reserved circle of Dear Promotion Suckers’ nevertheless failing consistently. One Friday night lights went out and myself was still hiding below the desk to avoid being laughed at for working on the clock.

The Other People. That would include the whole range from neighbours, social acquaintances, street walkers and passers-by to civil servants, doctors and market vendors.

Neighbours, who purposefully make noise after midnight and never responded good morning once they’ve been heavily scolded for such behaviour, -social acquaintances, whom I rarely have the chance to meet again after a day or two of flirtatious exchanges or some conversation that’d sparked some bearable percentage of interest, -street walkers, who definitely do away with my presence as well as their dignity when strolling shamelessly outside ignorant of the importance of life and the quality they deserve, and passers-by, who look at each other without seeing anybody, to civil servants, who most of the times think of numbers when they smile at me and leaves when they stamp my papers, -doctors I might have visited on numerous occasions, most often to be ridiculed by unpracticed practices of therapy they want me to be the first to experiment on, as well as market vendors who remain un-astonished at the marvel of basic universal trends of trade.

The Partner. After longed for feelings had temporarily found a shelter in this young chance to form a new, different, ideal image for our own, critisicm appeared from every small nook, multiple windows of opportunity and even last drops of words and grimaces. Routine questions received routine answers and quests for more deserved love tasted dry in the mouth never spoken out loud. He didn’t mean any good other than his own and that was easily detected in the joint (ad)ventures we never managed.

It seems no one has been listening or paying attention. Even responses to questions addressed to me have gone unanswered. Comments I made in different situations trying horribly to fit in remained with no response. Laughter went unnoticed, smiling ignored. Efforts of social participation were met with plain interest and people around me dealt with my attempts to wit most commonly.

My wish to contribute to a conversation with my knowledge and information deriving from my cultural background were seen as fastidious expressions of arrogance. Most probably. And my recent gestures of philanthropy as long awaited practice of bourgeois galantry.

Not that I haven’t tried to look at myself in the mirror. Face, body and personality alike. In many and different ways. In connection to, in relation with, in joint –ships with others, in clash with, in accordance to, even on behalf of..

The oxymoron of making something as beautiful as a nicely written and exquisitely worded suicide note is my final attempt to be remembered at least by you, the officer in charge of my case.

Dear officer,

say you read something (no comment on the content necessary) by M. (please remember my name) who was driven from thirst for a normal life nonchalantly into oblivion by everybody (but you).

M.