image generated with Gemini
The following writing was found in a small notebook in his jacket pocket . Seemingly just bought, alongside a pen used to write in it. Further information of the writer will be left undisclosed. Partially due to the privacy we seek to keep in this investigation, and partially as the man was found hanging in his living room.
As of now, I have been in this world for 24 years. And for the foreseeable future that I see, I would like to hope that number continues increasing. As for the future after that, I do not know. Whether that is ideation of suicide, or a clear understanding of where my limits to plan the future is. (Ironically) I have not thought that far.
As I near the quarter of my life. I would like to think I have dreamt well, which is an achievement in itself; not everyone can dream on grand scales. Alas, It seems I was not that well of a climber to scale those lofty dreams. Perhaps that leaves me a dreamer at the end. But that does not mean anything, at least not anymore. Perhaps I have learned to lose. To give up. Which again, is as focal as it is to learning to persist. I have wasted sweats and tears that have tried to scale my passion. And even if, it didn’t really amount to anything in the end - the best I can do is acknowledge my action - or the failure thereof.
Yet it would not be a good life without regrets. I could not find the courage to do more. I could love, but not more - and I could cry, but not harder. The tears would dry faster than I’d personally like it to, and the only thing that would lay at the pit of my stomach was this unidentifiable feeling of nothing. Maybe I never really loved it that much. Maybe, I couldn’t love it further.
And again, Regrets. The same inexplicable feeling, as I found myself in the arms of a number of different women every other month during my youth. The lukewarm emptiness in my belly always seemed to overpower the sweet words they would tell me. That they love me, and that I was “the love of their life”. And I did not know if I truly meant it when I would reply to it.
I would dream of a faceless lady, that it was really her hands that I touched. That it was really her hair, that I would find on my face whilst waking up. And that it was always her leaving me, when I could not love back hard enough. I would see her face, and the lining of her nose - and her soft vapid hair that melded in with the darkness around her. And I would see her fly away.
“It is genetic predisposition, this inability to love. My father had it, and so do I. You’ll find yourself in a bit of pickle with it too. Well, not that it really matters - you're dashingly handsome.”
My father had once told me that, gripping the bottles of alcohol he found himself chugging even though just a night before I heard him faintly crying to the picture of my mother, saying he would not do so again. And I find myself writing this out, with my own hand gripping the glass. Perhaps you were onto something with how good this bear tasted. About the genetic predisposition, I don't really care.
And at the end, I will always regret that I was a coward. That no amount of monotonous “alrights” I said, and all the things I ultimately agreed to with reluctance as good - will ever hide that fact. And that knowing that it would hurt, did not lessen the pain. And every day I will repent, or to be more accurate I will grumble in my bed.
That even if I learned to give up, I wish I had continued learning to chase that hapless dream.
I wish I had made better eggs. I wish I loved better. I wish that knowing made it easier.
And even if I know that I will be alright tomorrow. I will cry today. And in my dreams, I will hopefully see myself fly away too.