rage

How much do I let the people around me influence what I like? How many of my decisions were affected by the thought of consequences and opinions? Why have I always been quiet and strived to please everyone? A good guy with a smile. How many of them told me that I should be more selfish? But I was scared. Always. Scared of what could come after the things I do, where my decisions may lead. How far does my selfishness reach, and what could I be capable of? Responsibility. That is how I always called it. The fear of being late presented as punctuality. Unwillingness to deal with confrontation is politeness and insecurity dressed into the flashy clothes of so-called wise silence.

It might have been a decision or merely who I am. Surrounded by my safety nets at every step despite never leaving the ground level. Prepared for a fall that never came. The carefully curated narrative of my existence helped me develop strict rules and a surprisingly strong sense of control. Unless facts were securely placed in an argument, my opinion remained hidden from the conversation. No flashy colours unless required and in advance judging the viable reactions and outcomes. Constantly overthinking ridiculous possibilities solely to avoid unpleasant surprises. So, living doesn’t hurt as much.

People from different stages of my life may argue contradictory points of view. I struggled and made mistakes, sometimes unsure if I am playing them or myself. However, I eventually found a way to give everyone exactly what they expected. I knew how to be the actor who doesn't need to raise his voice to be respected. A protagonist whose opinions are valued. It was a private theatre for my co-worker, friends, family. I offered, and they took it. The face that is not particularly pretty. A body that doesn’t stand out, an attitude that rarely crosses their ways, and a story that is just humble enough. They called me smart and kind. But have I ever been any of those things?

Some have seen more and mostly turned away. I hated them and myself for allowing that to happen. They got too close, and perhaps it was me who got scared and pushed them away in the end. Maybe they didn’t like what they saw. Either way, after each incident, after every one of those people peeling from my life, I needed to run. Disappear and give up what laid between us because they knew the truth, endangering the story I built for others. As if I removed a blindfold from their eyes, they suddenly knew everything I was doing, keen on sharing the discovery. Never with the right people. A girl in grammar school I never saw after I tried to tell her the truth but bailed. A woman who refused to meet me after our ways parted because of how much I hurt her. I see them, use them and let go. Maybe it is not a choice. It could be a bad habit. Regardless they all learned one thing; I am a coward.

On a road that promises nothing but white lines and grey asphalt. No vision of the future, not even a stupid sunset. But I don’t care. That’s where I am now. The traffic is heavier, and my mind is less focused than usual. The steering wheel feels different too. It must be because my patience couldn’t take the weight of what I held inside and broke three days ago. A disgusting mix of my job and dreams stuck in the pit where appreciation should have lived. Sprinkled with some high expectations and a little bit of future-related worrying. Just past the healthy amount. In the core of the mass, there was my self-worth tangled between the numbers from the last pay-check. Still, much was left undiscovered as I couldn’t see anywhere past the figure on my bank account. I had been cumulating. Hoarding money and emotions, always scared of both, but at the same time terrified of letting them go. The consequences. The damaged image, what would I do next?

The reasons may matter less than I initially thought. I got up after falling and was a different person. A person who does not sneak around hoping people will be kind. Either forced to change or playing into a pathetic attempt to bluff me. What a construct! In all that, I dedicated myself to an outdated dream. And again - a dream built more for others than for me. It fogged my mind and destroyed my vision. But it also brought me here, telling me what I need to be happy: Speed, freedom, and no thought of what if, what could and how. To show them.

+

The wide wheels of a yellow automobile cross the white line once again, touching the opposite lane of traffic. The few honks its movement provoked only scratch the surface of the driver’s focus. Fully immersed in the moment of a dream that shouldn’t have lasted this long. A 2008 Lamborghini Murcielago, looking precisely as it did in the calendar, he kept long past its expiry date. Out of all the rare cars, he found himself trapped by the raging bull. Responsibility. A word he abandoned by the decision to proceed with the purchase. Now he owns a meaningless trophy and is a part of the vicious cycle. A cycle carried by those who reach, those who never can and the ones who try to find shortcuts. It was a spit at the past self and a fist thrown against the wall of the future. The account he focused on his whole life suddenly surrendered by red notifications. But he is unfazed by all the alarms and warnings. That is happening to someone else, too far away to worry about.

More honks and cars moving out of the way of a barely controlled bullet. The scenery is grey, and the first drops of water start exploding on the windshield. None of them stood a chance against the powerful machine that seamlessly intertwined with the person behind the wheel. A connection fuelled by desperation and hope. There is nothing wise about what is happening. None of his movements is planned or stealthy. It is an explosion of suppressed desires and sentences that should have been addressed. But now, all of it is dying by the road, crushed under the wheels pacing the motorway.

How does he feel? He wouldn’t know. Still, considering himself the nice guy others knew? Perhaps. He does not register much of the residual sensations. It was time to get rid of them, and things got blurry. Beforehand he didn’t see how much of his perception was tangled around the pillars of subjectivity. Is this what being spontaneous looks like? Queries piling on the back seats of the sports car and a direction that almost needs to catch up with his movement. But he doesn’t acknowledge any of that. It is the aspect of living he decided to ignore. Uninterested in the reasonable estate vehicles that used to characterise his approach to life. Sensible, reliable, always there to help. Gloriously selfless and shamelessly pointless.

The lights stop looking for the way, and the silhouette visible through the glass disappears in the back of the vehicle when it finally finds a worthy opponent. The environment changed. He is standing in a camping van, staring into a cupboard filled with fastened plates and cups. Confused, he waits, trying to understand the change. The escalation defeats the purpose of the beginning, almost begging a question whether it was worth it. He realises he does not know how to come back. A decision has been made - he is in too deep. A simple finger movement unleashes the impatient crockery, and it doesn’t take long for the first brave plate to leave the nest. It shatters on the edge of the countertop before hitting the floor, soon followed by the cups, glasses and the rest of the plates. One by one and a few at a time. All indulge in the addiction to gravity and the false sense of freedom.

Noises and pictures flicker through the air. Memories shot from side to side restlessly searching for a soul to stab. The chaos of a lost individual who forgot how to exist while refusing to attempt remembering. The second jolt throws his body on the floor and into the bath of the sharp debris. The roar of the engine wanders to the distance. Things go strangely silent. All the fast movements slow down, and flying shards and libs fill the cabin. The vehicle of unidentifiable shape momentarily froze in the air. An illusion for the bystanders who almost started hoping. But there is no stopping the force that has nowhere else to go; but to the dark depths, following the broken railing severed from the bridge.