He was at that point in life where after every puff to the sky, he would curse: what the fuck have I been doing all these years? What is my purpose here? Where is my dream? Where is my family? This is not the man he had envisioned as a kid. Where are my old friends?
Friends have kids. Friends have moved on. Friends no longer call. Friends have car keys; for a car and a house still remain the skewed measure of progress in his society.
He was at that point in life where beer was an antidote to the broken hour-glass. Prostitutes milked his disturbed energy dry. He cried after every sexual release. His girlfriend knew none of these dark alley fetishes.
Friends have wives. Friends have good sex every night. Friends can intimidate.
He was at that point in life where any job could save a day. Anything for money. Faith didn’t make sense. Millionaire manuals didn’t make sense either. He hated the laugh-lines in the mirror.
Friends mirrored what he could have been. Friends looked handsome, healthy and happy. Friends had wine and crabs, or ribs and laughter and shares and vacations. He hated friends. Friends made him lonely.
He was at that point in life where there was no point in living. Suicide was for cowards. But he has been dead all his life. One more death won’t hurt. If people laughed at his poor corpse, he will be too dead to give a fuck. That made a lot of sense.
Friends made sense whenever they spoke on podiums during fund-raising events. Things like saving, investing and connections and education and marrying young. Funny how a yesteryear’s peasant turns into a philosopher after a few zeroes in his pay check and a pot-belly. But friends spoke the truth. He hated the truth.
He was at that point in life where all efforts, prayers, fights just danced down the drain like filthy demons. He wanted to die. Just wake up, light a cigarette, walk, walk, walk never to look back. Just get lost in his despair so fortune can dispatch a search team to find him. Just fade off the face of the earth like a god of the mist. But there was no escape. Life is a death sentence. Period. No one walks out of this world alive.
So after sex one night, he told his pregnant girlfriend that he is finally done. Told her to stop loving him; to hate him because if he didn’t have her in his life and the unborn kid, then there was no need to worry about money. He wanted to give up and die.
But dying is a just a waste. How do you just die with your whole body intact? No leprosy, no amputation of some sort? No bomb blowing your body into barbecue somewhere in the Middle East? That is selfish! He didn’t want to just waste a body he has invested in with food and anaerobic all his life to some wooden coffin and maggots…That’s vanity. He made a decision.
Before he died, he decided to donate his eyeballs to the blind; his testicles to the impotent; perhaps his hair to the bald and legs to the crippled; his humour (fucked up people have plenty of this to counter their miserable lives) could be donated to couples warped in silence for they fear saying shit that will probably hurt the other; his brains could go to these mindless money-and-television-worshiping; religious-war-mongering, vote-for-change sheep; his ass could be useful in bloating some flat-assed girl’s self-esteem who is contemplating on becoming a dyke just to feel loved; he could donate his time to these busy work-to-pay-bills-till-I-die modern slaves so they could spend a day with people they love…Shit! He could actually leave the world a better fucking place than he fucking found it! Perhaps his fucked up life could make a good life story for a freelance lifestyle magazine writer or maybe a novelist. Maybe orators could quote him in their rehearsed speeches during political campaigns.
Maybe, maybe, his death could be more meaningful than his life has been. He could see bloggers tweeting about a man who donated his balls; his whole existence to the world before dying…
Then it hit him: there was so much to be grateful for.