The Good Things

He was good at beginnings. He had enough courage to take the leap, enough stupidity not to question his impulses. It was easy — throwing yourself off the cliff, diving into the deep with your eyes closed. Because you never had to touch the ground anyway. Because you were the one to jump, not the one to land. That was scary.

He was good at excuses: small ones and big ones. He could come up with anything convincing enough in a matter of seconds. His trickery made him look purer than a baby. He had little time, his brother was sick, he had no money, his deadlines were just about killing him this month. 

He lied so well, sometimes he even believed it himself. 

No, he wasn’t careless and lazy, he was exhausted and needed this ten-hour sitcom-marathon. No, it wasn’t that he used his friend Michael, it’s just that Michael is so much better in writing articles than he is. When Michael will need help with something he’s good at, he will help, of course. 

There are not many chances Micheal will need somebody to jog instead of him in the morning. Or drink an enormous amount of coffee for him, because that’s the only mundane things Sam is actually good at.

He’s good at ignoring. He believes in a lie, strangling occasional truth roaming the road of his thoughts at night. He can watch his mom cry and never bat an eye. He can pass a homeless in the stinky rugs and don’t feel a pang of guilt because of his twentieth pair of sneakers. He can convince himself it’s only just and right. He worked for it. He earned his money and his rest and his peace of mind. What about the world, it’s not like he has any power to change it. 

He’s good at deceit. Because everything mentioned above comes to it. Any form, every form of a lie is his craft. He could be Loki among Scandinavian gods; he could be Prometheus on Olympus. If the world was myths and legends again, he, for sure, would be a trickster. He’s so good at it, Sam can convince himself he’s not. 

He’s good at pretending. Son, friend, sibling, lover. He’s all of these things and he isn’t, because he doesn’t feel himself like one. Here and there he catches himself smiling at his best friend warmly or kissing his mom good-bye not because he feels like it, but because he saw somebody else do this. He collected patterns; he catalogued emotions; he crafted responses. He has so many tools at his disposal that play he starts in the morning and ends in the night is not a big deal. Only after giving his all, he doesn’t receive a round of applause — nobody knows he’s performing. 

He’s good at so many things and none of them is actually good.

He’s good at all the bad things, and it takes the life out of him.

There are days when he can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t play, can’t waste time in a fun way. He just lies there and stares at his hands on the blanket. Unmoving. Unblinking. 

A gargoyle on a tower.

Below there are gathering rows of tasks he needs to perform, pews of thoughts he needs to ponder on, crowds of people he should call. He lies still till midnight, then goes to take a leak and comes back to be numb for some more. 

At 2 a.m. he wants it the way it was; him being awful at those things: at lying and ignoring and pretending. The boy who was honest and told his mom every detail about his walks in the forest. The boy who sang on the street, loud and clear, having no idea how to carry a tune. The boy who told when he liked something and told when he didn’t, his face true and clear. 

Sam wanted him back, that boy. He wanted him back so badly his insides hurt. 

At 2 a.m. he thought, maybe, people around wanted that boy back, too.

He was tired of growth, tired of time. He wished he'd die and be reborn as the child. He prayed he'd die so many times and all he's got was a little death. A dozen of little deaths from him which Sam experienced all around the city. He could draw a constellation out of them on a map and put it on the canvas of the sky as the gods used to do. On the top, there would be the hills they hiked, lower the parks they kissed in, and the shops with gross salt cheese he adores.

He was supposed to make Sam's eyes gleam, his blood boil, but honestly, Sam never felt happy with him once. Only anxious about how it will end. Only scared of how he would push him away for sure. 

Now, when his heart’s prophecy is fulfilled, memories hurt even more. 

Well, Sam doesn’t really feel pain. He’s too good at convincing himself it’s all okay. And he’s too good at believing it’s all for the better and that girl Sam had seen him with, in their grocery store, choosing their bloody cheese, smiling their smiles, playing their roles… 

He convinces himself that it’s alright, too. It isn’t like Sam cares anyway. Maybe his chest aches because he is a bit lonely and has been binge-watching Netflix for days. 

Maybe he’s wretched for life now, and nothing can fix that. 

Sam panics too often these days. So he starts making a list of the things he’s good at just to prove himself he isn't worthless. He recites it as a pray, lulling him to sleep as he covers his face with a pillow.

That night after his usual list, at 2 a.m, he learns one more thing. 

Sam is good at forming himself around another, like a solar system. He’s good at remembering such intricate details about places and eyes and tastes and voices it’s unnerving. He’s like a book full of started passages the writer isn’t going to finish, and Sam can’t compare with his clumsy attempts. He’s good at flipping them through and forming prayers out of pieces. He’s consistent at repeating them until the words are gibberish between his teeth and his thoughts; until he’s lost inside the labyrinth he’d built. 

He’s good at being a body: at eating and walking. At aching. He’s good at being too warm under the covers, thinking about something he should never think about again, and he’s good at sulking afterwards. He’s good at watching from afar and scrolling through Instagram profiles with cheesy pictures; then watching a sappy melodrama while his crying has nothing to do with the movie.

He’s good at many things.

He’s good at the beginning to miss a person so hard, he can’t eat. He’s good at excuses why he dumbed the love of his life. He’s good at lying he doesn’t want to turn it all back and do something else with the relationships so fragile. He’s good at pushing away the thought he could have done something else then; he would have done anything else. He’s good at pretending he never wanted it all, never needed it.

And as he dangles his feet from the windowsill and watches the moon’s face, just as puffy as his own, Sam knows he is fine in so many things. He’s just so much better at fooling himself, isn’t he?