Up in the Air

I’ve begun again so many times it’s lost its catharsis. The first time I died I really did feel free. It had been a long time since I’d last pulled a stunt, sometime in high school to save myself from whatever embarrassing moment I had suffered. Now, my life has become a mesh of isolated moments interrupted with brief respites between acquaintances and work. In my quietest moments I begged for intimacy, but could not stand it in actuality. It wasn’t a violent fight, but a quiet shaping that forced me into such a pit. It was a slow death of everyday disappointments that shaped my character. 

What had bred this disdain had been a talent for gossip I discovered ages ago. It was such a funny thing. To see how quickly people would change their minds about what they knew after a little convincing. Nothing was set. Everyone had the capacity to change, to inflict the worst and best on each other, and everyone was beyond willing to believe it. I could live out my illusions, and for a very short time I did. Life was crisp and sweet, perfectly in tune to my taste. No one’s character was immune to the way I wanted it to be. 

It became predictable though, and my inner life soon reflected the one around me. I had built an environment in which the people felt the way I did, and I could not escape myself here. The thing that afflicted me was rising up to the surface the more I used my talents. It meant nothing for others to think I was good, because it came from my own deception. I let go of the lies I had perfected and started anew. 

Without my gift though, life had become old, and my eyes muted to joy. I dealt with life, and never anything more. The sweet release of convenience my talents had brought me slipped through my fingers. My friendships were polite. My life hushed. I was nearing the edge of what I could tolerate and no longer wanted it. 

On my 22nd birthday, I wandered into some boutique, covered head to toe in clothes and accessories, and let it slip that the poor girl who lived on Trintin St. died, some complications with asthma. Poor thing couldn’t get help in time, curled into a ball, and dipped quietly into the night. Two weeks later, I wandered back in, chattering on about how some relative of hers was coming to clean her house up. She’d done quite well for herself, was of good character, and not gorgeous but not too plain either. 

I had thought my first life was a mistake. That I had been shoved into a box and left to die there. That because I had lived on the outs for so long, no one could see me differently. The barrier between who I was and what others thought of me might fade. 

And though the welcome I received was warm, it did not last. I suffered the same complaints. 

I killed myself soon after and began again. This time, I spread more rumors throughout my stay. 

People were familiar with me, about my pleasant reputation, but no one could say they knew me. If I wanted to maintain an air of perfection, I had to keep everyone at arm's length. I was living as isolated as my first life, but now with the added upkeep of having to spread lie after lie. 

I had built a character who might thrive, but only if she couldn’t be found out. Who thrived only in the heads of others and missed what it was that she wanted. 

What haunts me now is wondering if I could ever really change. I’ve ripped skin after skin clean off, one right after the other, so that I could be made into whatever new thing I thought was better. I can’t blame anyone anymore. Whatever it is that makes me so awful slips through the seams. 

There are so many tells, my posture, my words, my inability to read between the lines. I found that I could be reborn, but that thing that follows me just never dies. The shape of it snaps back into where it’s always been. The dread that lines my fingers, I feel it trace and break along my bones. I’ve built and rebuilt the scenarios in my mind, savoring each one longer the more dull the pain it leaves, because I can’t bear to be without them either. 

If I die one more time could I get it right? Would I come into this world understanding the words I should say and the choices I should make. If you thought I was nicer than I was, would it feel easier? That cold sweat that wakes me even in the day.

I wandered into a boutique about a week ago and died. I left, but I did not come back. I left to go live where I only had to sit with myself. Is it heaven or hell? All I know is that when that sweet ache in my head reverberates for the last time, I will have no one tell me who I was and what I did. I cannot fool the mountains into knowing me as anything different. The memories of the trees and the rivers around me are left untouched by my presence. I went into the woods because I could not outrun myself when I felt the presence of others watching me. I could be fastened to my own hand, without a wretched thought of holding another to it. I went into the woods to drown the noise I did not ask to hear.

I let my mind run with abandon amongst the soft tufts of clouds, and I till the sky until the stars blush into the night without pause or guilt. No fear for consequence or shame; I am permitted to exist only as I am.