I stood on top of 18 stories…
Looking down, people looked like ants…and the song ‘Ants Marching’ by Dave Matthews Band, played in my head. It brought a smile to my face for some twisted reason.
The song was put on pause and the conversation I had with her began to replay. I had said, back then, that I didn’t value myself. I didn’t care what really happened to me.
The day before her father died she opened up to me about pretty much every secret she kept from all of us friends and she said, “You may not think this, but life is the best gift you could have. And when you said that, it hurt me, but I didn’t want to tell you. There are a lot of people who greatly value your place in their lives and they want and need you with them.”
“I didn’t mean what I said,” I lied….
In life there will be quite a few people who will love you or think they love you, and this love, or almost-love may be much more than the love you can muster up for yourself. They may express it openly or from time to time. And sometimes the sheer knowledge that you are loved can save your life. You may be standing on top of 18 stories, looking down at the ants marching, and thinking about how fucking tired you are, how bored you are, how “done” you feel, and you may genuinely think there is no reason to live and you can’t care about whatever else life decides to throw in your way. But in your thoughts you may replay a conversation with a best friend, a lover, a parent, and you may think, “But at least they love me. Maybe I am worth more, if so-and-so thinks I am worthy to be loved, I might as well give life another shot.”
However pathetic or pitiable that reason may be, I would like to look back and think that those were the thoughts that ran through my head and that, that was what made me step off the black ramp that stuck out of the top of my building….
I really would like to…
I remember the rusty satellites that covered the terrace…
I remember how cool the breeze was, the moon was no where to be seen, but the sky was of a reddish tinge….I loved that reddish tinge…I remember thinking that living in a country that’s a desert has it’s own beauty in spite of the limited greenery. The dust in the atmosphere tended to converge with city lights and together they would dance and make love till, at the peak of dawn, they would give birth to beautiful, breath-taking, rusty-red skies.
I remember smiling, and breathing.. really breathing for the first time, knowing that it may be the last time I breathe, that I accomplished none of my goals, but for once I could not care.
And I do remember thinking about that conversation with my best friend.
But I do not remember thinking that I was loved, and that could be my reason to live.
I stepped off the black ramp. The ants , the streetlights, the vehicles were cropped out of my view, and I got the better half of the sky, the top of sky scrapers and the terrace wall, that was about as tall as me.
I stepped off, to sip this limited view into my sight because I was shit scared of how painful my death would be….oh and of course, what a mess I would make on that pavement down there.
Right now, with a shard of glass in my right hand, the bulging veins of my left hand stand out, dressed in red….I don’t want a funeral, but I do hope that if they do anything in memory of me, they wear red….I love red, just the way he loved how I looked in red.
Right now, in the midst of a million shards of my broken mirror…I wish her love would have saved me…I wish that any one’s love would save me.
But as I replay that same old, little conversation, that warm October morning, 10 years back, when I got late for work, when I cried for her and her father…and cursed life because it seemed so unfair…I don’t think of her love for me.
I think of how I miss her…I think of how I will miss all the colours and the red.