Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead

I’ve got it all figured out. We’re a parasite. Other animals on this planet coexist with nature. We don’t; we’re like scabies. Tiny mites covering the outer layer of earth, burrowing into it, infecting it. We are like tapeworm

I felt like I was never in the moment I was in. I was always looking back, or
worried about the future

“Thank you,” I say to the cashier as I leave the store poorer.
I wish that I hadn’t lost my job at the bookstore. I knew that if I did not go to work I would be fired, but I still didn’t go. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been exhausted. I don’t have the motivation to wake up in the morning, let alone the drive to go to a bookstore and interact with people.

“It’s horrible,” my dad interrupted me.
My mom cut in. “It’s a horrible, good painting. You’re so talented, Eli. We just wish you had painted something less morbid—”
“All of your teachers are seeing this,” my dad remarked, exasperated. “They’re going to think you have a screw loose. You are embarrassing us. I’m disappointed in you.”

Sometimes I wonder if I have really been the same person my whole life. I stare at the picture, and think: Is that really me? I have this bizarre feeling like I was a different person at every other stage of my life. I feel so removed from myself then. Sometimes I feel like I was a different person a month ago. A day. Five minutes. Now.

The doors to the emergency room open automatically when I stand in front of them, confirming that I exist physically. This is a comforting affirmation.

Is this just anxiety? Is it worth risking that this is a real heart attack?

I understand how the train of human thought can derail. It is tragic both that this man has died and that his stupid impromptu attempt at entertaining himself misfired in a way that will now define him.

I wonder if my death will be what defines me.

I glance at the small crowd of people surrounding me. Maybe we are like dogs. Everyone here is waiting for their drinks like trained animals. I look down at my hands, and then at the hands of the people around me. These are our paws. We are creatures.

I spend a few moments wondering why she asked me to sit. I then begin wondering why it matters to me why she asked me to sit. Why do I need to know what her rationale is? Why can’t I just trust that the people around me have their own justification for their requests and their behavior? Why can’t I be like a dog and sit when I’m asked to, without wondering why?