TRUE.
but it's just the way you are, you don't have to be afraid/
the way you look at the stars, and how you think that they were made/
the motion will never stop, turning the night into the day/
you've gone away enough, when will you decide to stay?
a life by the city.
On his 20th birthday he sits at his computer listening to music. Writing, constantly, non-stop, suicide. Outside his window is a city. There is nothing outside the city. As he looks out, the cityscape changes and years pass by. On his 25th birthday he sits at his computer. Writing constantly. Outside his window the city is brighter than it was five years ago. The music has changed to sympathize with his mood. It has more metaphors now. He has a moustache. On his 30th birthday he sits at his computer. Constantly writing. Outside his window the new police helicopter buzzes miles away. It doesn’t come near. The music has changed. There are no metaphors, they have become repetitive, another form of avoidance. He has a goatee and a patch of gray hair on either side of his temples. On his 35th birthday he sits at his computer. Writing in fever, writing in pain. Outside his window it rains. The city seems further away this year. The businesses are moving across town with everyone else. The bus at the foot of his building makes a stop. One person gets on, nobody off. He wears glasses and at night crows walk along the sides of his eyes. He’s learning new lines on his face and a beard covers them with tiny white hairs hidden inside. On his 40th birthday he stays at his computer. Writing non-stop. Writing, write writing. The city outside his window is taking a cue and learning how to stay awake during the night. The pipes are beginning to rattle in his building and hot water is best sought out during the afternoon or early early morning. On his 45th birthday. On his 45th. Birthday. Writing constantly, non-stop, suicide. His nose and face are a little longer and a city still swells outside his window. “Once the sun comes up I’ll sleep, once the sun comes up I’ll sleep”. Writing. The music is quiet, almost silent. Nocturne. Belief in the meaning of his efforts; belief in his error. On his 50th birthday he writes. He’s writing. Looking at the screen he sees his hands. Looking at his hands he sees his age. Looking at the screen he writes. Outside his window the city hums; buildings high, stretching up to God and back down again. Lights blinking and moving through the sky, darkness sneering at it’s loss of power over the night. On his 55th year he sits and writes. His hands with spots start to move slower and his gray hair hangs in balance over his eyes. His mother fell asleep for the final time last January. On his 60th birthday he sits at his computer and he writes. Old white porcelain hits the desk and cracks into three. His hand moves up to his face; a feeling foreign, unable to remember it’s name. “Self I have forgotten you”, written. Outside his window in the city, a new religion found. The pursuit of self, the proclamation of identity. On his 65th birthday he sits at his computer and he writes constantly slow. His gray hair, long and thin, sparse regions filled with baldness. His frame, a deflated balloon. His hopes, somewhere in his words. Outside his window a bird sits perched looking inside before flying away to the city. Two pebbles of old white porcelain fall from his mouth onto the desk and crack into six smaller pieces. God, father, mother, brother, brother, self. On his 73rd birthday he sat at his computer. On his 73rd birthday he smiled an empty smile and his old eyes too tired looked at his hands. “I’ve enjoyed my time here, I’m too tired to wait for you to write back. With all love I hope this finds you”. Wrote. On his 73rd birthday he pressed his hand on delete and rested his head on the desk and fell asleep. All the weight, all the worries. Outside his window the city built a new airport.