Murderous Waiter

I'm pretty sure it's haunted. It has literally been following me for days now, and, in spite of it looking so innocent, I am pretty sure it has it in for me and will find a way to get me. Obviously it being at a distinct disadvantage in size, weight, etc., etc., it may take time for it to accomplish its task. But, believe me, it will not stop until it has eliminated me entirely and can take over my life. It first appeared to me next to the couch. It was just sitting there staring at me the entire time, looking innocent as ever. Not feeling especially neat, I brushed it aside instead of picking it up. Was that the slight? Was it that initial brusqueness on my part that turned it against me? The secret to its wiliness is that it is completely clear. It is there when you're looking straight at it, but can easily disappear into obfuscation when your focus is pulled elsewhere. That's when it lies in wait. That's when it plots against you. Soon, you will notice it somewhere completely different. I'm pretty sure I didn't put it there, so this, using pure deduction, means that it does indeed have the capacity to levitate itself–a chess peace, fully aware, moving itself on the board, being where it needs to be so as to anticipate my next move. Like a clear plastic wolf waiting in the shadows. Don't let its dainty innocence fool you. It is after me. First it gets under my skin by showing up everywhere I expect will be soft and pillowy. It would love to scratch me as I inadvertently lay my arm on it. It would love to hurt me but it can't. Like a death of a thousand cuts, it will start by just annoying me. I literally throw it on the floor the first time it attempts this psychological warfare on me. I am determined to not let it have the better of me from the very beginning. The second time, unsatisfied with my arm, it goes for my leg, seeing ahead to the moment where I will put my leg on the settee. It knows just where to be to strike. How it got there I have no idea. And that's just how it likes it, the surprise attack being its favorite kind of attack. It was when it laid its smooth, sleek body on the ground that its first attempt on my actual life was almost successful. I thought it was gone forever, pushed under the rug or the couch. I did not feel sad when I considered I may never see it again. It was then, when I was not on guard, that I stepped on it. My whole being slipped forward. I lost my balance, and careened toward the floor. I avoided a fall only by luck alone. Somehow I remained standing after having flailed about. Determined to not die like this, I picked it up and marched it to the trash. I tried to throw it away three times before actually making it into the bin. It flew away from the opening always at just the last moment. I eventually got it in, though. If it could avoid entrapment, it thought, then it could try to get me some other way on some other occasion. It is probably still thinking that now. Don't worry, it is locked away in the bin. Unless it can transform itself from round and flat to liquid, I'm pretty sure it can't escape. So, I am safe. I mean, I hope I am. I suppose if I hear some rattling in the kitchen before I go to bed, I might get scared, but, for the moment, I am fine. It does seem weird that a yoghurt that is completely encapsulated needs an extra top in addition to the foil that protects the nourishment inside. But, maybe that is its modus operandi. Maybe it manipulated some designer somewhere into making it exist. And now that it does, it wants to kill us. Yeah, I'm pretty sure its not just out to get me. It has little brothers and sisters that lie in wait for you, too. And they'll cleverly try to bring about your demise, too. Beware the yoghurt-top-assasins lying in wait in your refrigerator, my dears, for they are out to get you, whether you acknowledge them or not.

Alone

You know that scene in the Matrix, when Morpheus explains how the world came to be ruled by machines? "We don't know who struck first, us or them. But we do know it was us that scorched the sky." Great, ominous clouds cover the heavens as he says that. Yesterday, as I felt emotionally desperate, groping for a hand to steady my own, I found no one in the darkness. The clouds had covered the sky; all was dark around me; and no one else was there; no one would help. These moments of desperation, where I come to understand reality: that we are all really alone, that no one will come to rescue us in our darkest hour, that the world is full of billions of people, all clamoring to carve out their own way, selfish, disloyal...wanting to do the right thing, but bound by their own terrible humanity to survive and think of 'me' before 'you'. That is my world. That is the world. No, no, you say. Man is also the dreamer of dreams, the writer of great prose, poetry and music. Look at all we have achieved. This cannot all have sprung from selfishness. Many selfless acts were committed here. Man is capable of such greatness, enough even to wipe out his wrongs. Maybe. But all that Art and all those beautiful sentiments are of very little solace when I gasp, treading water, as my heart, inundated with feelings, begins to overflow, filling my whole being. I am drowning and there is no lifesaver to be found. Surely one of those great emblems of Man's selflessness would help about now. But, alas, the Mona Lisa does not float. But people love you, you say. Yes. This is true. But it's a fucked up kind of love isn't it? It is so very comfortable, so very distant. "I love you", they say. And then think, unable to help themselves, "When I want. When it is convenient for me. If you are diagnosed with some terrible disease, I will write you a nice card or visit you, vulnerable, half naked in your hospital room. And I will think well of you, may even say a prayer for you...in your absence." He didn't know what he had till it was taken from him. Yes, I understand. That's how we are, we humans. It is the horrible, finite nature of our minds. Our creativity, the creator of those masterworks, now unable to enlighten us with perspective. Our mind are our weakness in the end. So no one is there who will lead me to the light. As I sit there, so very disappointed in humanity and everyone who ever purported to care about me, I am so alone. I wish I could tell you what this feels like. Bu then I realize that I don't need to. We have all felt it. Some of us only in our bad dreams. Others, awake, like me. Sometimes, when asked to give money to some cause, I give much more than I should, knowing full well that I must compensate for those who, for whatever reason, will give nothing. I have been blessed; I should give back, and I do. And, in the end, I don't really ask much in return, I think. I don't reach out often in need of bolstering. I don't call friends daily to complain about my problems. For the most part, I deal with these things myself. It's those moments, though, as the clouds roll in, it is in those moments that I wish I could cash in on the good I have done. My kingdom for some comfort. Again, no one is there to unconfuse the confused. Awwwww, you say. I wish I had known. I would have given you a hug. That would have been nice, I think. Perhaps I, after being able to tell you how desperate I feel, could also have instructed you to pat me on the back gently. Now say "it will be ok" softly, please. Now give me a hug. I suppose if I had known I needed all those things, and could have articulated them all, I might have been helped. Of course, I couldn't tell you those things because I just felt confused and alone. More I didn't know. You are sick? Tell me how to care for you. Tell me how to make chicken soup. Tell me how to make a cold compress and where to put it. Tell me to cover you up in blankets and pull the shades. Tell me how to care for you. I know it's hard to speak, but you must tell me how to treat you or I won't know how. But you DO know how, don't you? Do it like your mother did it for you. Well I would, you say, but my empathy has run dry. You are not my child. Why should I love you? And now we come to the point. It is not that people don't know how to comfort me in my darkest hour. No. It is that they don't want to, unless the timing is right, unless they feel that they should and find the courage to do so. They can help me if it is convenient. The love I have to give is the kind where you don't have to get your hands dirty, they think. Easier to write a card. Cleaner, more disinfected. If I stay away from this man's sorrow, perhaps I can remain uninfected...today. I really AM alone. Dammit. Adrift in a sea of selfish assholes. And the story gets worse: I am one, too. And there we have it–the reason to believe in more than just people. The truth is: you will die alone even if someone is there holding your hand, even if your bedside is lined with people who do, in their own way, love you. You will still make the journey alone. I take great comfort knowing that there is Someone who will reach out and grab my hand in the darkness. I believe in the One who can comfort even the most un-comfortable piece of you. Only He/She/It will be there when no other on this Earth can or will. By the way, I love you. In my own way.