Sept.

Love is a sickness in which I currently suffer from; it’s symptoms include feeling ‘on top of the world’ and overwhelming joy. It also erases one’s creativity, I have found, as I have not written anything of substance in about a year.

I confess: when I said that love is a sickness, I lied. Love is a beautiful thing; love for humankind, brother or sister, oneself or life, are all beautiful things. Unfortunately, the love of all things beautiful distracts one from seeing all things ugly – a thing I once captured quite vividly in my writing. With this new found ‘love for all things beautiful’ I have been unable capture the ugly side of life as I was once able to. And yes, you may be asking yourself if I am offering a reason against love – the lack of ability to capture the ugly side of life. And to this I give you an enthusiastic yes! It’s true.

“Then how do you cure yourself of this ‘love for all things beautiful?’” you ask me.

“Through heartbreak,” I reply. “Heartbreak is the cure for love.”

Then you will commence to call me insane and bitter as I’m seemingly willing to give up such a great feeling, that of being in love, for a life of heartbreak and feeling of loneliness. You will then question my mental stability and accuse me of all things vile in the world. After doing so, unconvincing me of my vileness or mental stability, you will ask me why I would choose a life of heartbreak over one of love.

“All in the name of creativity,” I smirk. “In the name of creativity!”

Six.

Understanding the human mind is no easy task. One can invent theories to explain this or that action or run experiments upon large groups of people to support this or that theory. But in the end, the human mind as a whole stands as an enigma. Yet these psychologist maintain there is a blueprint to human behavior. We do this and that because of this and this because of that. If only human behavior were so predictable!

I just felt a surge of anger when I wrote that last paragraph. I ask: do you know why, psychologist?

‘Perhaps,’ you reply, biting your pencil, deep in thought. ‘Perhaps you are bothered by something you said. Or, you suffer from…’ Which then you then begin to say the name of a mental disorder you believe me to have and it’s history and possible treatments. And before I know it, I’m leaving your office with prescriptions and invitations to group sessions sharing the same disorder you made up for me minutes ago. Oh psychologist, is there anything you cannot predict?

‘No,’ you reply firmly.

cinq.

For the non-confrontational misanthrope, the smallest act of rebellion is giving someone the wrong directions purposefully. Nothing makes one with a hatred of humanity feel better than knowing that if his fellow human unable to reach their destination, it is because of the wrong directions they gave.

I am guilty of such pleasure. I cannot enumerate the amount of times I have purposefully given a person the wrong directions simply for my own psychological amusement. Though I may not know for certain if they will take my directions exactly as described, the idea that there is a possibility they will get lost as a result of doing so makes me smile in joy.

One specific incident comes to mind. I had been waiting for the bus to take me back home after a couple of hours of running errands when a gentleman in his mid thirties approaches me with a confused look on his face. I immediately identified him as being a non-tourist who happened to possibly be from outside the GTA. Looking around, perplexed by his surroundings, he approaches me with apprehension.

“I was told I needed to take a bus going away from the Yonge-Sheppart station. Does this bus go to Young-Sheppard station?” he asks.

“Nope, no it doesn't sir.” I reply confidently. Little did he know he would rue the day he asked me for directions.

“Thanks.”

“Oh, no problem. None at all!” I’m smiling inside my head right about now.

Eventually the bus arrives going to Yonge-Sheppard station and we both get on. The gentleman makes an effort to sit close to me I would assume in case he needed any more guidance. I treat this act with a grain of salt. I calmly sit in front of him and smile politely.

The gentleman looks around uneasily as if their body can feel it’s traveling the wrong way as their brain refuses to listen. After all, I did tell him that he was on the right bus. Why would I lie for? He begins to look at me in confusion as I greet his confused eyes with a smile.

I make sure to get off before he realizes I’ve led him astray. By the time he has noticed, I’m already halfway home and have received my psychological pleasure. I play in my mind continuously the possibility this individual is lost in the GTA and has simultaneously used their last token, ticket or two seventy-five.

Yes, these little things provide me with much psychological pleasure. I feel no guilt about the incident whatsoever; okay, I just lied - I do have some guilt: I should of made my directions more complex.

quatre.

After rushing headlong into the bus minutes ago, an available seat finally revealed itself to me. Letting out a sigh of relief, I sat my weary body down and closed my eyes as I laid my head back in rest. It was when she made herself known.

‘Sorry,’ she replied after lightly bumping me on the knee, waking me up from my light slumber. Obviously this was a tactic to get my attention. It worked. Lifting my head up and opening my eyes I saw in front of me an elderly woman smiling. ‘These old legs seem to have a mind of their own!’ she smiled cordially. Her bumping me was no accident.

After replaying the short event that took place in my head for a couple seconds, it was painfully clear she was signaling me to give up my seat to her so she didn’t have to stand. It seemed that she was using social etiquette against me in hopes of scoring a seat. Though she knew I had every right to my seat and by law didn’t have to give it to her, an unwritten rule said I had to since she was elderly.

But gentleman, I tell you, today was not a day I wanted to be chivalrous! Especially to a manipulative woman! I had worked an entire day sans break and was not about to give my seat to a woman who relied on social etiquette to get what she wanted. If she wanted a seat, I decided, she’d have to ask me for it. Ignoring her, by pretending to be too tired to understand her, I returned to my former position of rest.

‘My legs aren’t what they used to be,’ she commented to a lady standing beside her. ‘Not since the arthritis began, you know.’

Still pretending to be asleep, I continued to ignore her. Five minutes passed before she continued her indirect plea to me.

‘My poor legs… I’m not sure how long I can do this.’ She continued not speaking to anyone specifically, but hoping someone specific would hear. I could feel the eyes of everyone on the bus set their disapproving gaze upon me.

‘Would you like a seat, ma’am?’ I asked, getting up finally. I had grown tired of her lofty presence over me.

‘That would be great,’ she rejoined. ‘My legs aren’t what they used to be, you know,’ She said for the fiftieth fucking time. ‘You’re such a gentleman,’ she smiled, taking my seat. I smiled back scornfully.

‘It’s nothing. It’s my stop now anyways.’

Getting off the bus, the disapproving gaze of the other passengers followed me as I walked in the opposite direction as if studying my face for the next time they saw me.

‘Asshole!’ the old lady yelled out the window as the bus drove off.

trois.

Recently, I had decided to rejoin society after viewing it for many years through a peephole. From my hole I would write my criticisms and views of a society I refused to take part in because of my hatred for humanity. With my announcement, I expected my entrance to be much like the following.

Gathering around my hole, numerous people from my so-called life await my appearance. Co-workers, close friends and a handful of people I respect. They’d be waiting around my hole with bated breath while I ready myself for my reintroduction to society.

‘Sound the trumpets! He’s rejoining us!’ one would cry to onlookers who would all be gathered around my hole.

‘Be quiet,’ another would cut in, ‘you’ll scare him back underground!’

‘I think I see his head… and a hand?’ another would comment as I slowly emerge.

Upon fully emerging, confetti would flood the sky with my name being chanted over and over. I would wince at the bright light that greet my eyes as all of my years underground have left me surrounded in a troubled darkness.

‘Thank you for rejoining us, Anthony! We’ve missed you terribly!’

‘I want to have him first!’ a woman would cry, shoving herself ahead of the thousands of women fighting for a chance to save my troubled soul.

I would pretend to be impartial to my reintroduction but deep inside would be full of joy since I hoped mending my relationship with society would prove to be fruitful this time around. After shaking a couple of hands and kissing babies, which I do with much hesitation, the on looking crowd would chant my name as I attempt to silence them to make a speech.

In my speech, I’d talk about all I’ve been through. I’d talk about the ugly place I was in 4 years ago and all I’ve been through to get to this point. I’d talk about alcohol abuse, prescription drug use and my thoughts of on a world I vowed never to rejoin again. With each positive word leaving my mouth, a quick ‘horrah!’ would leave the mouths of my audience. Upon finishing my speech, I’d crowd surf my way to the exit and begin my new life in society. In this new era I would find happiness in every aspect of my life and have absolutely no regrets

I then wake up from this obvious dream to see that this is not to be so. It has only been a couple months since my reintroduction and already I’m missing my hole.

deux.

Trying to gather my thoughts, I sit here and hope to gain some direction. Scotch is the driver as usual; I am merely a passenger tagging along. I always try not to ask any questions fearing it’ll steer me in the wrong direction and ruin the trip, though it never happens. After a few minutes into the ride, promising myself to keep silent, I break my vow and ask my driver a question.

‘Life,’ I ask sitting back with Miles Davis playing in the background, ‘what’s the point of its repetitiveness?’ The driver says nothing. He never does. Instead, depression smacks me in the face as I feel I already know what he’s going to say.

‘Fuck,’ I reply in frustration, ‘continue driving.’

I begin to feel worse as suddenly I see people from my past pull up beside me. In protest, I demand the driver to go faster.

‘Faster, driver!’ I yell scornfully. He begins to pick up speed.

By this time it’s usually too late as now I’m being chased by exes, school bullies and family members who I swore I would never encounter again. The tension begins to rise.

‘Faster!’

‘You dumping me was the best thing that happened to me,’ someone yells. ‘I’m much happier now than I ever was with you.’

‘I’m happy for you.’ I reply. Of course, I don’t mean any of it. I wish they were as miserable as I am right now.

‘What are you doing with your life?’ another asks.

‘I don’t love you anymore. What we had was three years ago. Get over it!’ another replies loudly. Out of all the people chasing me, this is person I wish to get rid of most. I haven't heard her voice in years.

‘I said faster, driver! Faster!’

As we go faster, some do leave meanwhile others pick up speed. Sooner or later, I'm being followed by only a handful of people. They’re always the same ones left behind.

‘Get over it. For all you know, I could be in someone else’s arms right now. Maybe I’m even fucking them right now. What if I am?’ the same voice from my past comments. I can vividly see her looking at me in a condescending manner.

‘Just leave, go away.’ I reply rudely.

‘What are you going to do if things don’t go your way?’ someone else replies. ‘Then what? You’ll be just another nobody, if not worse!’

‘Faster!’

‘You’re alone and miserable. Do you know people your age are already settled down and are happy?’ another interrupts. This one irritates me.

‘No they’re not,’ I shoot back. ‘They’re not happy.’

‘They’re happier than you though!’ They reply back.

Suddenly all of them are fighting, each trying to out do the other by screaming for my attention. Some try to dig deep into my past in attempts to get my attention through mentioning my past failures; others use a philosophical approach.

‘Think about it: there’s no meaning to life. Suicide is the most logical solution. Camus said that, you know.’ Continues one voice.

‘Go on.’ I demand.

‘See, life is absurd. And though you’re feeling down because of the nature of life, be grateful: you’re only seeing life how it really is. Everyone else out there is blind – ignorant. Ignorance is bliss, you know.’

‘I know.’

I soon become engulfed with voices speaking simultaneously as I’m unable to answer their questions either out of refusal or fear of the emotional repercussions of my answers. At this point I’m going so fast the driver is no longer listening to my commands to slow down. Getting caught in emotions, dizziness and fatigue, I pass out.

I awake in complete depression and anger the next day. My head feels as if it had fell victim to a car crash and remembered every single thing that happened before the accident. Confused by the numerous cuts and bruises I find upon myself, I peel myself out of bed into the shower.

I promise never to do it again. But as always, I always come crawling back thinking I’ll finally be able to answer all questions asked and things will be different the next time around.

un.

I am an angry man. Not because I believe the world owes me something, for the world makes no promises, but the fact its experiences have left me with a bitter aftertaste. Though I can easily blame individuals or gods for my misfortunes, I choose not to. That would simply be giving them more credit than they deserve.

So save me your pity. My life is a result of my own doing and not of any human or godly influences. I, and I alone, have steered my life into such a path based upon my own actions and choices.

And though you may think I’m writing this for your acceptance, I’m really writing this for the sake of my own record keeping. I could care less if you discover grammatical mistakes or inconsistencies within my writing since this isn’t being done for your applause and acceptance.

'Then what part do we play these posts?' you may ask.

'An audience' I rejoin, 'simply an audience.'