Metropolis – The Beginning

The sun was shining. I prefer the heat of summertime, but for the visual of sunshine? Fall, all the way. Mid afternoon, unseasonably warm. Rays were sending out what amounted to a seemingly flawless amber tone to the sky, shining through the bare branches of the trees in the courtyard. I get so easily staggered any more, honestly. But lately, or lately for kind of a long time and I didn’t recognize it out loud to myself, it’s not the eager impromptu ‘Thank you!’ that I used to offer up to who knows whom when bowled over by the splendor in the mundane. I tear up. I don’t waddle around like a drain pipe or anything, but something is moving through me, taking advantage of my open moments to point out to me that I am sad. I am sad. Hmmm. That’s not right. I am fucking dead inside.
I’m so tired of myself.
It’s Saturday, it’s around 2. I’ve had a pot of coffee, watched some shows I had on DVR, made the kid cinnamon rolls from a cardboard tube. Now I’m standing in front of my patio door, feeling huge and weirdly conflicting emotions. For no easily discernible reason, as just standing watching my backyard shouldn’t make me feel like the world is about to drop off of the horizon.
One part is my nearly ever present awe for the easy beauty that is always right outside these walls; I truly believe that the world would slowly and probably in a small way become a better place if every person made sure to look up at the sky at least once a day. It’s amazing stuff, and probably the closest to magic that we’re going to get here. I don’t like to study science because I don’t want my pretty pictures explained. I don’t want to know all about refracting light, or clouds filled with bits of dirt. That’s fine, rational explanations don’t make me love them any less, but I feel a bit cheated at times by reality and so…let me stay in awe.
I love outside. I always have. No fear of heights or water or bug or scratchy plant has daunted me over the years, although I’ve been camping and freaked out at the thought of a bad person out there in the dark. Not nature though. Well, I’ve also never wandered where my survival depended upon the impeded olfactory sense of a bear or a wolf. I love slightly tame outside. No bears.
The other part? She’s my zombie. Not jumping on the genre bandwagon, although I am a huge fan of it. No purist, me; I like the old plodding and implacable brain eaters that slowly terrorized my younger self’s dreams and the preternaturally fast and bloodthirsty strikeforce of the modern parlance. But I wasn’t kidding when I said I was dead inside. Fucking dead inside, excuse me.
She is the me who stares at the world that is loved, and has no desire to be in it. She doesn’t pretend to agoraphobia, or shyness, although she will sometimes to illness – a headache, a vague malaise an ache a shiver. Who knows what the fuck goes on in that maggot ridden brain of hers. I don’t.
I’ve been telling myself since I woke up hours ago, feeling content and happy and surprisingly non-headachey, that today would be the day that I ‘got stuff done’. Today will be the day that, without the necessity of going to work, I will leave this apartment and go outside. To the valley to walk around and just be for a bit. To drop off all the kid’s outgrown clothes that have accumulated in the closet at an astounding rate as he shoots up taller than I am. Something. I don’t care what, really, just anything.

I get to feel her take over, which is always fun. The chutzpah that my self wakes up with, the smiles and silliness, fade into nothing. I can’t leave, like this apartment is a fucking drug. Stuck stuck stuck. What the fuck is happening to me?
I feel like there’s this tiny me inside, she’s all happy and healthy and strong. She doesn’t smoke and she’s blown away by everything, and she’s hilarious and has crazy energy shooting out of her fingertips. If she was big and real I would want to be her best friend, this tiny little me on the inside. And she’s stuck, running in circles around this obelisk prison, just stuck running in these itty bitty circles banging on the walls and hollering to be let out.
I’ve tried to break down her walls and let her out, I have! Or, possibly, I totally have not. I have made half hearted attempts, poking a finger into a crack in the mortar here, scuffing at a broken brick with my toe. I have yet to lower my head like the Juggernaut and smash those shitty stupid walls to dust. Because of my zombie. My zombie doesn’t say anything or make a move to stop me. She just stares until everything in me freezes except for the possibly slightly psychotic-in-a-good-way princess running around in those little circles.
I need to make friends with my zombie. I need to stop calling her my zombie. I need to make friends with me. Because it is me that is fucking dead inside and it is me that is screaming to be let out and it is me that has lost it all. It’s all me.
Knowing is half the battle.
I don’t think I will make it out today.

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Categories: Fiction | 2 Comments

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2 thoughts on “Metropolis – The Beginning

  1. I know how difficult it is to recognize these feelings within oneself and how much more difficult it is to admit what is happening.
    Bravery doesn’t begin to describe what you have done here.
    I hope you did make it out.
    That would have been nice.

    • Sometimes, even if you intend to put a fictional twist to it, calling it by its name is the only step left to take; shake its hand, pleased to meet you crazy, now please shut the hell up. Thank you 🙂

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