24 June 2003 · Personal essay — written through one night, published as written.

So here I am, very drunk, very confused, sitting with my headphones on, and stealing power from the apartment by way of an extension cord plugged into an outlet in the main corridor. I’m blasting Marillion through these babies and it sounds great. I’ve got my last bottle of Killian’s Irish Red at my right and to my left I have my pack of Parliament Lights. As soon as this beer is gone I’ll brew a pot of double-strength coffee and start obsessing over the things I’ve experienced in the past.

Why is it always the past? Why am I so preoccupied with my past? Is it because I’ve done so many great and wonderful things and it seems to have come to an end? Is it because I fear that my life has sunk into a rut that I will never find my way from? Or is it maybe that I have simply lost the capability to believe that there is more out there—that the only thing in my future is work that will bear no fruit?

Damn it. Maybe that’s why I drink the way I do. Drink alcohol, and then drink an even larger amount of coffee. Mixing depressants with stimulants, and smoking cigarettes to even out the transition… Better to simply immolate myself in a fiery blaze and run out into the street to symbolize the only truth I’ve come to realize! And who is my audience? Who is this letter addressed to? Not you! Hell no. Don’t even try to believe that I’m writing this for you; because you’re the last person I can expect to understand anything I’m saying. Don’t pout or whine about it. You shouldn’t even feel sad about it, because I doubt I’d be able to understand a fraction of the shit you might write about, if you ever decided to write it. I might believe I understand what you’re trying to express, just as you might believe you understand what I’m saying—and this isn’t a reflection of our abilities to get a point across. Not at all. It’s just that an experience lived first-hand is very different from an experience lived otherwise, and is one that cannot be fully understood without experiencing it so.

Have you ever had the notion that there was a person out there who understood you so well they might see the world through similar lenses? Someone who so eloquently expresses the feelings you want so hard to express yourself, but that no one seems able to understand? I have, and that person is Derek Dick. Fuck! I know I’m always writing about Marillion and how much this band has affected me; but seriously folks, this is it. Hahahahaha—what the hell am I writing? If only I could share with you my mind, allow you to join in on my thoughts, feel what I feel, see what I see, hear what I hear, interpret things as I do, remember my experiences, and measure the distance between the highs and lows of my life. I’m not comparing myself with anyone else, and I’m humbled at the thought of those who lived similar or even more intense lives, and all I can do is smile ruefully and offer a beer, a cigarette, and a cup of coffee.

I can smell the leaves of my grandmother’s backyard… Autumn, sometimes around 1989. Raking leaves for quarters and a cup of hot chocolate and the smell of rain and decaying vegetation, laughter from within the house. The sounds of dogs barking, and I standing there, wondering why they are barking. Is it for want of food, or of companionship, or simply an activity they’re unable to control? And then, here I am now, and I would just as soon pull the trigger to a gun pressed against the side of my head as go to sleep to begin another day in this hopeless existence. So I wonder: is it simply the lack of that gun that keeps me from ending it all now? Probably not, because I could just as easily end my life with one of my many knives, or jump from the roof of the building I occupy. And so I now wonder, how different am I from those dogs? Do I do what I do for want of food, or of companionship, or do I do what I do out of an inability to do otherwise?

I think that I matter, and that I matter more than most. I think that others think they matter, and that they think they matter more than most. When I die, I would like the world to know how much I appreciated it, how happy I have been at times. I would like the amazing people I have known to know that I love them dearly, and that I hope they somehow achieve their desires. I only wish that when I die I could listen to music for all of eternity, and that if I were limited to a single band, it would be Marillion. And if I were limited to a single album, that album would be Fugazi, because through that album the majority of my life would be replayed to me so absolutely that I would have no need to dream or to remember… But I realize that death is the end-all of consciousness. Therefore I find myself choosing between an irremediable end of being or of continued turmoil, albeit with my memories of better times, and the possibility of more to come…

An hour has passed, and I’m well into my coffee phase. I spent the majority of this time talking to my sister Lauren. Our conversation was very rewarding as a lot of my questions were answered. As anyone knows, it is difficult to play devil’s advocate over a matter you feel so strongly about. During our conversation some of my favorite poetry was brought up, in particular Eldorado by Edgar Allen Poe. This poem so accurately describes the stage I am in.

ELDORADO By Edgar Allen Poe, 1849

Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old— This knight so bold— And o’er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow— “Shadow,” said he, “Where can it be— This land of Eldorado?”

“Over the mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, Boldly Ride,” The shade replied— “If you seek for Eldorado!”

My interpretation of this poem is as such: A young man, full of promise and the virtues so often attributed to knights (honor, valor, hope, faith, honesty, compassion, etc.) lives his life in pursuit of his dreams. Through good times and bad, this man has yet to achieve his dreams, and ultimately he perishes. But at the moment of his death, he asks himself what he did wrong; how was it that he failed to realize his objective? Suddenly he understands that the meaning of life isn’t to achieve the object of one’s dreams but to make the journey toward it—that the meaning of life lies in the journey and not the arrival.

And so here I am, at that very point, so close to death, where I ask myself, “Where can it be—this land of Eldorado?” And I am comforted by the fact that Eldorado doesn’t exist in any manner but a concept, and that I must simply continue my journey until at last I do die. Now is not my time. Slainte Mhathe my friends! May your ride be free of obstacles and be filled with joy and merriment. Goodnight.

Composed 2003 · part of the Essays collection · authorship documented on the Provenance page.