The Rehabilitation of Human Entity - Chapter One; Scales

         Hard gravel moved beneath my board as I skated along a familiar path passed Woodward. My limbs were numb with the thought of winter, and my emotions changing with the leaves of autumn. There’s something about the early hours of the morning that helps you come to terms with this; with the thought of losing the warmth that the world had once provided for you. I compensate with another cigarette, pulling the worn pack of Next Blues from my coats inside pocket. Opening the pack reveals the last few cancer sticks nestled beside my vandalized white lighter, covered in words written in permanent marker. Reading horizontally in order of birth were a variety of members from the twenty-seven club. “Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain”, it read. According to conspiracy, they all died with a white lighter in their pocket at the age of 27; and I aspire to do the same. They say each cigarette takes away a day from your life, and at this rate, I’ll be right on schedule. I lite it up with confidence and overwhelming satisfaction because I was in control. Nothing could take my life without my consent if I took it away from myself. The red embers beneath the ash light the way and I cut through the darkness into a vacant parking lot. The uneven pavement rattled my board in rapid spurts creating another numb sensation throughout my legs, but I was almost at the bridge.

The concrete sloped up and away from the streets and towards the train tracks on top of the bridge as taxis passed by to pick up the weekday alcoholics. Approaching the bottom of the slope, I dismounted my board and kicked it up into my hands. A classic trick I learned when I first began skating. When I was a kid, there was a local skate park across from my street that was overridden by college drop-outs and teenagers who didn’t live with their parents anymore. Parker was one of them and lived in the house beside me, but I never actually saw him go inside. Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep, I would open the blinds just enough to see him sitting against his garage door, alone, crying and begging for answers. After a while, I would sneak down the stairs and out the door to join him on the wet driveway just to let him know that he was the "coolest" and that he was welcome at my house any time he would like. He would usually just ruffle my hair and tell me to go back to sleep, because there would come a day where the world will be so haunted that I couldn't get away, even with my eyes shut. As a kid, that meant nothing to me because everything was lovely and innocent, but now I understand what he was talking about. I wish he was still around so I could tell him that.

Nostalgia is such an awful feeling. It’s just an overwhelming sensation that reminds you that nothing will ever be as good as it once was. You will never feel the same joy and you will forever regret wishing to grow up. This is the feeling that makes you want to rekindle old friendships, but reminds you that you’re different people now. Ergo, will never feel the same level of contentment that you think you’re feeling right now, but all it is, is the realization that nothing will ever be this perfect again. And until you’ve learned to accept it, you’ll regret what your life has come to. I idolized those idiots. They had a decade of experience over me, but they still taught me everything they knew. I would spend every waking minute I could trying to conquer kick-flips and half pipes to prove that I could be somebody, just so I could become the same low-life’s that I tried to outshine, and have the ability to pick up my board without physically having to bend down and get it.

 I quickly cleared my mind of memories before I broke down again. I was balancing my weight on the top of an iron rail that shook with an approaching train. Shaking my head, I placed my board away from the tracks and used it as a seat. The weight of the bag on my shoulders added to the weight of the world, so I placed it down beside me on the bed of rocks and frozen weeds on the ground. Before turning away, a crumpled piece of paper caught my eye as it stubbornly fought the wind to stay in its place. My curiosity got the best of me as I flattened out the creases, only to reveal a lonely, unsigned haiku.

In this witching hour,

it’s only the lack of you

that haunts me tonight

 

In an instant I felt a deep connection of relevancy towards the scripture written on the page. The kind of writing that belonged to a beautiful human that spent their life writing down their thoughts in fear of it tearing themselves apart from the inside out. They would be loved by all, but lonely; and that made them sad. I began to think - I forgot what it meant to be alone; truly alone. I had been by myself for years but I found comfort in things that human beings couldn’t provide. But today was a specific; I felt empty. Dark midnight paths were lit with the ominous lights that each street lamp graciously illuminated. My shadow clung to me like the ashes of cigarettes and I could feel myself falling asleep. Thirty-four and a half hours of wakefulness can lead you to almost anywhere, and that’s where I was going. Henry only left me seventy dollars for the week, so I found myself looking for the priceless treasures. The night was so dead that you can hear the silence and for the first time in a long while, I couldn't stand it.

Another drag of a cigarette, another hour of my life disappeared. It’s harsh, but distracting; therapeutic almost. Inhale, feel, think, exhale, and repeat. This brings me comfort. I lift myself off of the ground and climb over the tracks, I’m going to go explore. I slide down the other side of the bridge that slopes into an abundance of foliage, but I use the extended branches for balance. My journey is interrupted by a fence that blocks my path. The bottom seems to have been cut open and transformed into a walkthrough, Alice’s doorway to Wonderland. Small stones make their way into my shoes causing me more discomfort than the cool air of an October night. That thought brings me back to reality as I felt each minute pile on top of my lack of sleep. My eyes were heavy and sunken with the anchors that regret tied to my feet. I was ready to temporarily die now. In hopes to pass out where I was standing, I was interrupted by an oncoming train making its nightly pass through the city. It created gusts of wind that seemed to blow right through me, as if I were transparent. But that’s how I feel sometimes. As if I exist, but without anyone’s recognition. I counted the carts of the passing train, and it’s like I’m young again and counting sheep. God damn,I need to stop reminiscing my childhood. Dwelling on the past makes me so vulnerable to the point where each wave of negativity knocks me back on my face. I think it’s time to go home. I collected my belongings before I changed my mind and added this night to my list of regrets. I reached for the shrivelled paper that contained the lovely poem and shoved it into my jean pocket. I was in love with the words on the page, and I was going to take that love home with me. I wish Mum were there to see it, she loved poetry. I wish that she would be waiting for me at home in the rocking chair, adjacent of the front door, and giving me that look of curious worry. She would lay awake against her body’s will, just to make sure that her “Little Jules” was home safe. I’m sorry I put you through that Mum, I know you just wanted what was best for me. I wish she didn’t have to leave so soon, she had so much more to her life that she was never able to experience. Yet here I was, practically throwing mine away. Emotions hit me like the wind against my face as I raced home.