I'm original

And I said, "I'm original, I'm original, I promise."

But you pointed to the paintings hanging on the walls of the Louvre and the paintings were stuck in the reflection of my eyes.

And I said, "Wait, wait." So I slid my [leather] backpack off my shoulders, unzipped it hurriedly, and drew out my journal. I opened to my proudest page. Clean, white page. Final draft in pen.

But you listed names like Rothko and Alis Priddy and Devastated Daisy and Devastation Diaries and Grace Kelly and Hazel Grace and Gene Wilder and Dick Tidrow and Syl and Kat Stratford and Esther Greenwood and Joel Kenney and Phyllis Dae Sloan and Joel Barish and nom de plume and Teenwulf and White Rabbit and Reginald Delicious and Charlotte Charles and people who write as effortlessly as they speak.

And I took the names. But I didn't quite know what you wanted me to do with them. So I read them. Over and over and over and over. And I think I'm starting to figure it out.

So then I show you again. I take out my journal. And now it's a little faded. The pages are worn thin. The book is full of the scribbles dancing with the script and skipped lines and crossing out and blurred pencil and smudged ink and messy margins and fingerprints.

You flip through some pages. Point at things you like. And you show me dance videos.

And I think I get it.

How to Die

Instructor: "Ahh, welcome back to our ‘How to Die’ class. Remember to invite your friends and family because, as we all know, you never know when Death herself is going to creep up on you. Ha." Chuckles. "Anyways, today we are continuing working on our final words. I’ll come around and see how you guys are coming along."

Instructor: "'Sex.' Hmm… I like how provocative and bold you are. However, you might want to lengthen it a bit."

Instructor: “Whoa, whoa… A whole paragraph?! You’ll be long dead before you read the eighth line, and people will never understand what you were trying to say. This is your one chance someone will listen to you completely. Your life will have been a complete waste!!”

Instructor: “‘Solve problems as they arise, for I have not, and I have failed.’ Umm. I’m all for teaching your kids lessons, but that should be done before you’re on your deathbed. In fact, how about right now? Also, when everybody is celebrating your life, I don’t recommend reminding them you have done nothing with it.”

Instructor: “No, no, no. This sounds far too rehearsed! It’s supposed to seem as ‘natural’ as possible!”

Instructor: “Ahh, a raised hand. How admirable.”

Me: “Mr. Livingston, what will your last words be?”

Instructor: “Excellent question, although I don’t recommend modeling yours after mine. Mine will be ‘Finally!’ When you have spent all your life preparing for this moment, you haven’t appreciated life to the point where you realize the significance of its passing.”

I walked out of the class. I had no time to prepare for death.

I was too busy living.

A cliche, bitching letter from Life

So you're told over and over again: This is the beginning of your life. This is the ending of the paralysis. But each day you wake up, throw on those predictable boxers your mother bought for you, do your homework the day it's assigned, and sleep the prescribed eight hours. I threw in a girl to provide some variety. The first day you saw her, you knew she was proof of God. Dat ass. Yet you would not be distracted from your studies. You would not experiment with the girl who only wanted to fuck you. You bore.

Bravo. Bravo for the acid kids in their fishbowl. Bravo for the straight A students and their shitty taste in music. Bravo for the writers who are slowly killing themselves one word at a time. Who are saving themselves from the cold broken-hearted reality of dying the unheard drunks on the sidewalk. Bravo, bravo, bravo.

This is where you come in and tell me I should clap for you. And so I stand slowly, and clap reluctantly. An encore. A standing ovation. A drink in hand I have to set on the arm of my chair. Congratulations for your thousands of misunderstandings. Congratulations for your acceptance to BYU. Congratulations for the win you penciled into your notebook. For those nights you stayed in doing homework instead of doing girls. 

And I breathe cigarette smoke into your face halfheartedly, and you wave it away instead of sucking it in. If you were my description of perfect, you would have breathed in the smoke like you were breathing in the scent of love and acceptance and want all rolled into one. Bravo, bravo.

But even though you aren't my idea of fun-loving, you're God's version of religious. Focused. You pray to God day in and day out, on your knees by your bedside table. And I'm told you'll be awarded in heaven for your good works. Well shit, that's great. But try some drugs. Punch some walls. Blast music in your car to turn heads. Sneak out. Add some more tongue into those kisses.

This may sound harsh. But yes, I dropped you headfirst on your first day and I didn't put much faith in you succeeding. Like a godfather, I watched you from afar. I have my principles and those don't include stepping in to warn about the coming heartbreak. About the flu season. Why I'm intervening now, I can't tell you. That Wednesday in May you totaled the car. I keep telling myself you deserved it. Telling myself I liked watching you flounder on your own.

I'm a jealous man, and so I wanted to see the blood seep through your skin like spirits. Liked to see you in red, which your mother never buys with that hair of yours. I was jealous enough to prevent Death from stealing you away from me. She could have made you happy. But you were mine. You were always mine. 

Forgotten.

His writing was recognizable.
His writing.
He was the date with half his side forgotten from the group picture.

A Girl Named Death

Death colored outside the lines.
She broke down the door instead of knocked.
She laughed loudly in the library and skinny-dipped in the sunshine.
She starved herself and shaved her head.

Death comforted the cutters with her lullabies.
Her eyes framed a movie you knew would break your heart.
She told you about human rights abuses and starving children.
Meeting Death made you different.

Death grieved like she had been the one abused.
She laughed like life was beautiful.
She could play video games like no girl I had ever met
And she bungee jumped to get a better perspective.

Death didn't take things for granted.
She kissed like it was the last time she ever would.
She said sleep was the best escape
And the best bed was matted grass.

Death told me ugliness was a state of mind.
She was a ghost and her thoughts were transparent as water.
Her wrist read "Death is peaceful"
As if proving it to herself.

And one time she packed up all eight of her suitcases.
She told me she was going to save the world.
I laughed.
I should not have laughed.