CHAPTER II: JASON'S DEPARTURE

Jason started to speak into his partially charged cellphone, quietly, of course, in order to not interrupt the feral coitus of his passionate neighbors.

He cleared his voice, in order for him to demonstrate authority over his last epilogue.

"I would like to think that the world lost a little love on the night of our last; regardless, it meant something to me, as our love culminated with a Super Blood Moon Eclipse.  I guess the prophesy held some sorta f*****g truth, "our" world ended that day.  It may seem queer that I am even considering such an act, following such a beautiful love story; yet, the tragedy of love is the courage of letting go.  You never gave closure, but that's just how it happened.  It wasn't totally unexpected.

This decision may just be happenstance that...ummm.. like Passover, I was able to celebrate being free with you.  Then, of course, as the Feast of Tabernacle always follows, I am now aware that, I did not save enough strength to survive until the next season.  I'm not even f*****g Jewish.  What the hell am I even talking about.  I happened to realize just the other day that we were a story of the tides.  Although my ship was destined to sink, it was useful enough to set you free from the eye of the waterspout.  Now, you shall float along safely from any fear of destructive currents and steer clear of this fate.  This idea was harpooned into action before I drowned.  The dichotomy of measurement is a game for losers and yet admiration is a mirage.  "I" is merely the greatest illusion and through pain I am forced to reflect.  My discovery is a naive illusion...

I am just starting to notice that everything that I focus upon forever floats into the tunnel vision of what is absurd.  Is life just an arousing amusement?!  No ignorant fool would intentionally awaken absurdity; it sorta, kinda, finds ya.  The day absurdity first took hold of me, with its asphyxiating grip by cold and bony fingers, was when the doctor invited me into this well-lit world, a*s-first.  Since then, I've felt that my mind will never escape from this repetitive loop of infinity, forever, to and fro, with only a finite set of tools. This constant battle of ons or offs, me or them; no matter what, I am only able to find myself here.

Why must I be so conscientious and to such a degree that I am stuck on a deserted stage, behind a curtain, igniting the creative flame and only witnessing the projection of shadows upon curtains. In the meantime, Camus and Nietzsche are playing keep-the-point-away from Sartre.  Sartre is seriously trying; however, he gets distracted as he likes to contemplate their action and the presence of all us thespians, but he forgot to settle down and allow the curtain to rise.  Thus, here shall be where my story ends; in the beginning, at least, that is what the author has offered me.

I've been told that everything great must start with a struggle; and that is, where, I guess, I shall start this fatuous fiction of a facetious truth; it's probably somewhere in the middle, and I question to whom my message shall be directed to.  Honestly, I am fine with no one and I shall call you, my empty audience.  It will give me strength to follow through with this.  I will attend my own funeral all alone.  My current situation allows me to recall that being lost is the only place I can find myself; there is no audience clapping for my success and I've never been so far off the beaten path, as I am this very evening, or I suppose night, now.

I am MAD! Not at the world or anything in particular.  I'm MAD for the reason that I am shackled to freedom.  It's confusing, I know.  Death will set me free.  I am unsure, but maybe Spinoza had it right.  Isn't everything really what it's not, or vise versa.  So... I've accepted my madness and my death will be peaceful, for I am starting to gasp for life like an asthmatic attack.

My prose may appear weak and my plot has just begun, so please bear with me because I will not be around to make edits to your criticism.  I know that my story will be limited between the covers of an all but dead source of media, but my story is not yours, so seriously, I don't care for such criticism.  I am mad and I have the desire to be mad with a scrolled parchment and quill.  Silly me...I'm f*****g recording this.

Why should I care about such issues?  It's not like you are going to listen to this or even care to read this awful s**t.  I continue to end in stupefaction by what is known as the 'other'.  Is this webbed work in which we weave only created for us to remain shackled to freedom?  Is this what Utilitarianism and moral sentiments created for the people, to appeal to free decision within the concept of the Categorical Imperative?  Just so you know, the concept was devised by an isolated man, a fool of sorts.

I am feeling seriously lost, as I am sure you are too. This existence is just so bizarre and leaves me continuously confused, but curious nonetheless. The seasons continue to shift, while the contrast cannot decide where it begins or ends.  I find myself lucky to choose my own fate, in a Convorcian sense that is.  And everyday, from here on, the light will set as darkness looms and I will be absent. It may be such a beautiful dance, but I have no breadcrumbs to find my way back and the deed is done.  However, it is taking slower than I thought. Once the curtain falls, it will only rise to a new scene and I must build coffins for every second, minute, hour, day, year... decade, in which, I faced; in a life that I am no longer able to wake in happily.

I prick my ears up to a society of want and in the end I hear them say, "I want a sure nothing rather than an uncertain something". Why does certainty drive?  I would rather be curious.  Then, I would be able to venture into MY world, my adventure, and explore as a child who scans their new surroundings. What is good and what is bad has always been for me to decide.  I am not sorry at all.  I thought that I would be unable to do this alone... but I have.  As I am not the victim but the creator of my sentiments.  My drive is value, but I am in a valueless Limbo.

Everyone is rushing towards some great schema, just to miss the point.  It's here; it's now.  Gravity starts after my senses end; therefore, in order to feel the instant, I must take a leap of faith that the other is able to catch me.  She will not come.  To feel is to fall; it just depends how far you are willing to fall, cause in the end, life will always fail to finish.  It is the demands which have killed me; the sweet escape of the bitter other."

"Goodbye my..." (The phone died.)

Jason died before dawn from an overdose, as he took the entire bottle of his anxiety medication, ten-minutes prior to grabbing his partially, charged phone.  With him died the last true love that held the world together, as we are the glue holding up eternity in a generation without the knowledge of love.  Everyone ends up dying alone; incidentally, only the narrator gets the satisfaction of closure.  However, that is not how this story ends.