Original

Everything has a first. There was the first man to attempt to communicate his desires and perceptions to others. The first attempt at language. There once existed a person who looked to the stars and was the first to wonder what the heavens above contained. Then, someone became the first to reach those heavens. So too, was there a first among man who thought of what lurked under the depths below, where the rays of the sun refused to enter, and where the crushing pressure of water felt akin to that of a vice. So on, so forth, there have been many firsts. However, there could only be one first. All that followed was derivative. A pointless redundancy that tried and failed to replicate the novelty of the original. Perhaps in an attempt to emulate the same satisfaction the original produced. Human nature demands it of us, after all. To seek out some sense of accomplishment to fill our hearts to the brim with purpose and fulfillment. Whether it comes from the external gratification we receive from some success of ours, or from an internal one. Maybe it is the one binding commonality among all of us. Unique individuals we may be, but the longing we feel to have lived a meaningful life is a cliché of the human condition that resonates with every man, woman, and child. 
The first time I walked, even without having a conscious memory of it, I'm sure I was happy. Then, when I spoke my first word, I imagine that moment was satisfying as well. Of what I can remember, this trend makes itself obvious. Joy upon learning to read. Pleasure upon figuring out how to tie my shoes. The first time I remember scoring perfectly on a test, I was ecstatic. I loved it. We all loved it. That rush of dopamine that came with the territory of making real, genuine progress. Pure bliss, in its most raw form. 
Now what?
Wake up. Brush your teeth. Shower. Eat breakfast. Drive to work. Write and read reports. Go home. Make dinner. Sleep. Rinse and repeat.
Ad nauseum, ad tedium, ad infinitum.
I've become more familiar with the sight of my ceiling than I am with anything else. Countless hours, laying on my bed and listening to the droning sound of the fan until it fades into the background like white noise. Not blinking for what feels like eternity, wondering if the blue paint on the surface above me is lighter or darker than I would prefer, only to drop the question as quickly as it arrived. I could go to the movies. I've seen movies. I could clean my room. I've cleaned my room. I could watch the sunset. I've seen the sunset. I could think about what I could be doing without actually doing it. That... that goes without saying.
Red blankets, blue sheets. Lay my head on the pillow. Lay on my right side first, then my left, then my back, and then my stomach. Feel my body ease up. Fall asleep without realizing. Wake up, rise and shine. Is it a new day? "Yes," I answer in my mind, knowing it won't feel like it. "Maybe something interesting will happen at work," I'll think. What was once a false promise, now a false hope. Is that what they define as a delusion? Who cares? Pour your coffee, wash your face. Hop in your truck, top off your gas. Put on a smile. Please your customers. Make them happy. It's all you can do. Then, go home. Prepare for tomorrow. Gather what little energy you have left as you lay in bed, staring at the same ceiling you always have. Is it an old friend? Or does it only exist above you to mock you? To tell you nothing will change.
Red blankets, blue sheets. Lay my head on the pillow. Lay on my right side first, then my left, then my back, and then my stomach. Feel my body ease up. Fall asleep without realizing. Wake up, rise and shine. Is it a new day?
No. It isn't.
Try to breathe. Breathing is hard like this. Moving hurts. There's something in my nose. Invading my nostrils without mercy. Look down with my watering eyes. Are those tubes? My eyes water further, more than they ever have. I'm crying. I'm sobbing. The tubes in my nose go deep, much too deep. Extending down into my throat. I can feel them tickling the walls of my neck. I can't tell how deep they go. I try to cough, I try to scream. Nothing happens. There's a pressure on my jaw. The taste of metal is on my tongue. The sensation of clamps holding my mouth open... is that what it is? I can't move. I can't see down below my own nose. I'm laying down on some surface. Every now and then shadows dart across my vision. Blurry figures stand over me. They're tall... unnaturally tall. One reaches its fingers towards my face. Those fingers are wrong. They're too long... they're gray and leathery, like a mummy's skin. 
I hear sounds, noises, beeping all around me. There are clicks from the figures. Clicks of their tongues. The light above is so bright, it's almost blinding. Pure whiteness, like a flashbang. The figures continue their clicking. There's a sharp pain in my stomach. I can't see, but I can feel it. Cold metal. Cold, sharp metal... slicing open my skin. Screaming is useless. My eyes flood with so much water, it begins to burn my face. I feel hands inside me, tracing along my insides. Poking and prodding all around with curiosity. The tubes push deeper into my throat. The pain begins to dull. Is this shock? The saliva builds up in my mouth, but before I can even choke the moisture is suctioned out. My vision begins to fade. The darkness is scary. All consuming black, one that incrementally blocks out the beeps, the bright light, the clicking, the feeling of objects stuffed into my esophagus. I go numb, numb to the world around me. 
Wake up, rise and shine. Is it a new day? "Yes," I answer in my mind, knowing it won't feel like it. "Yes," I tell myself, trying to ignore the uncomfortable pain within my nose and throat. "Yes," I try to convince myself, until I lift up my shirt and see the stitches on my stomach. 
Pour your coffee, wash your face... Call off work today. Stare at the wall. Stare at it for hours. Stand up and walk to the bathroom. Look at yourself in the mirror. Look into your own eyes, your own soul. 
Smile.
For once, in what felt like years, that sensation surged in my brain again. Dopamine, my old lover. Back once more after extended leave, greeting me with open arms. Was I happy? Perhaps that's one way to describe it. Though it feels inappropriate. I hated the pain. I hated the discomfort. The confusion and shock. Does it matter? In exchange for something new, something novel, I would accept those things every time. 
Quit your job. Throw your coffee maker away. Trash your bed. Smash the nozzle of the shower. My hair is unkempt. My skin reeks of dirt. My teeth are yellow. The cavities are appearing, but I won't dare do a damn thing about it. Clothes pile up in my room. Trash and half-eaten food lays around sloppily around my house. 
Good or bad. Healthy or not. The craving is irresistible. To do something new. To experience change. I'd rather die than live another day the same way again. Never repeat an action again. 
I look for the remote so I can watch television. It takes me an hour to find it under the foot of used toilet paper in my living room. Some of the paper is shredded. There are rats living under it. Some are alive, some are dead. The dead ones eat the living ones. I've never had roommates before. This is nice. This is different.
Good or bad. Healthy or not. The craving is irresistible. To do something new. To experience change. I'd rather die than live another day the same way again. Never repeat an action again. 
Go to the local park. Bring some ziplock bags. The people are staring at me, but who cares. Plug your nose and eat dog shit for breakfast. Ignore the taste. Don't wash out your mouth. I let it linger. I let it marinate.
Good or bad. Healthy or not. The craving is irresistible. To do something new. To experience change. I'd rather die than live another day the same way again. Never repeat an action again. 
I've never suffered a major injury. Never truly seen the flow of my own blood. I grip a razor, pressing it forcefully against my arm. Even a rusty one will work. I scream as it goes in too deep. The blood gushes and gushes. The razor smacks against something hard. I've never seen my own bone before. I really, really needed this. I shave off some of the excess skin that hangs from the flaps of my wound. I feed it to the rats. Watch them fester and gnaw in the filth of my home. How beautiful it is.
My arm becomes infected. It leaks fluids constantly. The rats are mostly dead. Only a few of them remain. One is more aggressive than the others. It foams at the mouth and snaps at me when I approach. I let it bite my hand, I let it sink its disgusting rotten teeth into my flesh. I stomp on it relentlessly. I piss on its corpse and smile. Did you know that only a few cases of rabies are reported in America annually? Never could I have imagined getting to this point. This satisfaction. This bliss. This is what it means to be in tune with human nature. To satiate the endless hunger for experience and novelty we each face. 
What lays ahead for me is the obvious next step. The final destination of human knowledge. Not a soul on Earth can concretely answer what happens after death. What exists beyond the horizon of mortality. I hope it's beautiful. I'm sure it will be. To experience the final frontier of existence and non-existence. 
Everything has a first. Everything that follows the first is a pointless derivative. So, if anything is to have meaning, it must come from experiencing the first, always. That is what we must pursue. That is what I have chosen to pursue. Human nature demands it of us, after all.
Category:Icydice
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Monsters