one of those days (when you fall off a roof)

it is taking all i can muster not to cry at this juncture. this is not a lie. i refuse to allow my emotions to totally escape me, feeling as though a moment may be lost if given to tears. the reaction seems insubstantial in comparison to the catalyst.

this, this twisted beginning, that i must begin in all its torturous, self-reflecting despair. i purposefully make towards the page with an effort and an outcome seated immediately in front of my path. with the strike of the first word, or perhaps the coming-together of the first flow of logic and the formation of syntax, all is lost. i realize that there is no need; it will gain me nothing.

the course of purpose destroys all records of itself.

where do we go from here, the moment of pen-setting? i can see myself from the window, scaling the drainpipe attached to the redbrick extension of the house opposite. i lose my footing momentarily, but rest one foot on the sill of an upstairs window. i clutch the pen in my hand, carefully.

tiny birds, like the ones children craft from paper, draw choreographed circles in the sky and then land with perfect geometry upon the roof’s ascent.

this is where i want to be, so with one last drain of energy i haul myself up past the overhang of the guttering, the damp moss covering my fingertips and burying itself underneath my fingernails.

i turn, gingerly, and sit with my legs over the edge of the precipice. i think of the height of a two-storey house and decide not to stand up. instead, i clear my lungs and breathe deeply; could it be that the air is thinner up here? i pay no attention to the small crowd of people gathering below, and instead look into the distance watching the crawl of vehicles displaying their tiny perspective as they weave their exhaust trails through the cold morning, over the hill and into the city.

i close my eyes for a moment, feel the wind bluster its way past these obstructions, whistling under the roof tiles and, before i know it, i am shouting but no one seems to hear the projection, my words are carried off into the air by the wind where even i cannot reach them.

the message, however, remains with me, words heard through bone and memory, not air, words that speak clearly, enunciating every last vowel.

i have chronicled you.

as i repeat over and over, “i am nothing”, the murmur becomes a strain of misconceived, existentialist, background radiation and the purposes of this dirge fade, at first into blurred shapes with washed-out colours, but later into white, like a cheap, television heaven-sequence. the grip on the pen loosens, and it is probably significant that i only notice this as it falls from my hand.

the ordeal of descent is a surprisingly pleasant one, necessarily brief and detrimental to my body temperature. i am pleasured at how easily my body achieves an overwhelming level of tension before accomplishing total relaxation, all beautifully in time with the passage of the air and then the collision with the inexpensive and poorly laid concrete at street-level.

the melody of the affair astounds the onlookers. one of them picks a pen from the floor, blows the dust from its cracked casing and places the instrument in a pocket, before beginning the long walk through the cold morning, over the hill and into the city.

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2 Responses to “one of those days (when you fall off a roof)”

  1. god, your writing blows me away! you crystallize the images and leave imprints, deep and painful, on my mind. superb!

  2. you want me to cook sinigang for you?

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