What Joy in Shadows

It’s the end of 2012. We’re nearing the deadline they’ve been spouting about since the Mayan Calendar put a stopper on timekeeping and Y2K failed to thrill us with fear.

People around me are stocking up prior to Christmas, convinced that class warfare and civil strife are inevitable after one more slice of dry turkey. Ammo, MRE’s, giger-counters and hazmat suits; they talk about fuel, water rations, food sources, and safehouses as though a zombie outbreak is inevitable and they, miraculously, will not be effected by the disease. They despise the news, yet keep watching. They hate Facebook, but keep posting. You know one of my personal quirks is that I hate clothes, I think everyone would be happier if they were just naked. But I cover myself and dress modestly so that the rest of you sick, prude bastards won’t be offended when my white ass tromps by. You’re welcome, you ungrateful motherfuckers.

Paranoia is a fun thing; it is the occupier of idle minds grown too comfortable in the world. Despair, depression, anxiety; these blackguards are all most poisonous when we grow too complacent.

It will be the first Christmas without Grandpa; the wise asshole that made my life miserable for a decade. I, at once, miss him, and yet also, am at peace with him being gone. It will also be the first Christmas I will spend knowing that I have an incurable disease. I’m still learning how to deal with this; first comes denial, naturally; it is our fore-most defense against the unfair. But as time ticks on, I’m also floating with the current, suddenly unmotivated, uncaring, and unafraid. I fear neither Zombies nor the next installment of Windows; I worry less and less about sprouts of gray hair and, instead, plan a final hurrah of vacationing to paradises unexplored.

I can’t tell if my sudden lapse of ambition and motivation is a result of depression. I don’t know if it is merely a stage in coping with the “Ace’s and Eights” I’ve been dealt. I look at the people around me; alcoholics, enablers, liars, hypocrites, and sloths, and grow curious as to what is so wrong with me that I’ve become this judgmental, close-minded and selfish individual who can fit in with no crowd, and grows tired of the menagerie of animals that parade past, delighting in the wonders of the dark world. Why don’t I just join them and develop a habit? Why not choose Rum as my long-term companion on this desert caravan? Do I have too much pride? Or a fear of myself? Or perhaps, a fear of letting others see who I truly am?

I always wanted to be a hero, but as a child, and to this day, playing with family, I’ve always been cast in the role of Captain Hook. I play a good villain, and in that admittance, I realize why God never gave me superpowers; I would not have used them for good. You bastards are lucky He took mercy on you all and instead of giving me telekinesis gave me transverse myelitis. You would never have seen it coming had I taken it upon myself to “cleanse” the world.

Some of this, naturally, is sarcasm. Some of it is drearily accurate. I’m 27, hardly a “ripe old age of wisdom and riddles.” Is it like Tyler Durden eluded to? Am I no singular creature, but just a parasite prancing about to the tune of corporations and psychologists?
Again, more sarcasm. I almost wish for Zombies. What a joy it would be to become a mindless devourer of the flesh? Unjudged, unfettered, and totally free to run nude through the streets after the screaming victims, cooking their brains to a lush medium rare with Meth and Maker’s Mark?

Do Zombies get high? If a vampire drinks the blood of a drunk driver, does their blood-alcohol percentage go up?

No, no zombies, no vampires, nothing fantastic in the pyroclastic cloud of the paranoid and enfeebled. I write poetry to chain down emotions; monologues to entrap ideas; novels to create a drop of ecstasy without the needs of a chemistry set. I practice sarcasm as the timer ticks down, not on the end of Man, but on the end of another year that Man will never get back.

Perhaps, one day, we shall return to that naked Eden and rove the shores in little more than body hair and bareness; until then, I will adamantly protest silently by refusing to wear socks with my hazmat suit.

2 thoughts on “What Joy in Shadows

  1. @theKisSilent – Ah, I see your point! But being an immortal zombie; would you actually care about immortality if you were mindless and completely content? Then again, whose to say that zombies would be incapable of remorse. Good point. 

  2. *Nods* Yep. I feel this, with one small difference. The thought of being immortal sounds dreary and depressing to me. I’m just bitter enough to be pissed off on December 22nd if we’re all still here. It would be fun to terrorize the village, though.

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