I fell to my knees, my body slack and drained, arms folded before me, sweat dripping from the tips of the long hair that draped across my face. I had done it, had gripped the World Serpent by the tail and ripped it free from my chest, its fangs sliding free from the apple in my chest. The venom spouted forth from the bite marks and gushed out before me. I was free.
I walked hand in hand with her as we took in the late Fall evening. I knew something was wrong inside, but I could not force my body to expel the bitterness and anxiety, couldn't imagine a life that didn't make me feel alone and outcast from any other human beings. For so long I wanted connection, communion with something other than myself. Glancing at her in my peripheral I couldn't acknowledge the power between us.
Years later, I'm carrying our child down the stairs as she toils away at her art desk. We exchange quick smiles as I pass her by, our daughter smiling and bouncing in my arms as we pass her on our way to the kitchen. I whip together a small lunch and bring it in to her, which, she reluctantly turns from her work to enjoy with us. We're a family, and bound together beyond what words can explain.
Every now and then I pause before our library and run my fingers along the spines of the novels and textbooks until I come upon a title: Tower of Brahma. Of all the books we own, this is the one that matters, for it is mine. I spent seven years of my life in a hell of my own making, constantly exposing myself emotionally, then encrypting it in poetic verse and obscure allegory. It's a completely self-indulgent text, filled with short stories, poems, essays, all scratching away at the black charred surface of my heart.
I laugh to myself there, letting my head drop a moment, eyes closed and taking in what had happened so long ago. A conspiracy of self consumed me, a labyrinthine plot through the inner workings of my mind, all in a desperate attempt to be happy, to gain enlightenment and become fulfilled. But when everything becomes an escape, you lose track of where you're going, frantic to flee whatever it is that's trying to kill you.
In my case it was me. Or the poisoned me that I created based on people's perceptions and their selfish demeanors. I tried so hard to change who I was, all while desperately clinging to the past as I had no idea who I was without all that anger and sadness. I was unwanted and unloved, mainly because I wanted to be. I teased myself with the idea of suicide endlessly, hoping that that at least was one way to be truly free.
I hoped that plotting out this book, this collection of a couple hundred pages and printed text, chock full of my ideas, my pain, my desires, I had hoped that this was what it took to reprogram me so that I could live here in the world and be one of you. But it didn't work like that. I wrote it. I read it. I even tried to sell copies it for awhile. Some people had read it, I even got a handful of positive comments, with no one taking the time to throw a negative one my way.
Who'd I write this for anyways? When I re-read it, I didn't even know who that person was anymore. The vague details seemed familiar, and there was something about the core of the narrative that I connected to, but I couldn't relate at this point, less and less so as the years went on. I was a father and husband, I taught at the Community College, helping young writers find their voices and molding them into words. I walked through my life with a smile and a kind word for those around me.
I wasn't alone. I never was except for when I truly wanted to be. I just felt I deserved to be. Years of struggle forced me up out of myself, made me wake up and take stock of this life I was living. Thankfully some subconscious program forced me along, building up the staircase I would need to ascend in order to take charge of my life. So, when I wrote that last chapter, when I let go of all the misery I thought was so essential to my being, only then was I able to see things around me clearly.
I was working for the Daily News, breaking the latest disasters, a Blackberry on my hip and a blazer on my back. I had a girlfriend that would never give up on me, who wanted more than anything to be my wife, to be a parent with me. There were a small collection of friends who saw in me a magnetic and charming person whose company they enjoyed. There was no shortage of personal and financial wounds that needed to be repaired, but the stage was set, and I was in charge.
I heard Millie shriek with joy from the other room as Jazmine tickled her making googling noises. My child and wife, my family. I didn't bother taking the book off the shelf, I never do anymore, hardly even think about it really. The second book is nearly complete and I really don't know if I'll do anything except print up a copy to slide right next to this one here. Jazz would want me to, she thinks it's important. I think she just wants me to feel good about it, which is why I love her.
No one else needs to read this. I don't even need to read this. Yet, it had to be written, if for no other reason to save this writer's soul. I imagine a young punk picking up a used copy at the bookstore on St. Mark's in the East Village. He'll love it, hate it, slip it into a back jean pocket, leave it at a friend's house after they smoke and run out to a show taking swigs from their flask. Some idea or sense of the words will have made some impact on him, altering how he experiences that night.
Maybe he writes his own novel, or starts a band, swiping a chapter title for a song that will never be played beyond dive bars and dingy basements. I like to imagine that in years to come he'll have read my adventures in New York City during the first decade in a new century and wish that he had lived back then, when things were more visceral and real, never really knowing that fiction is all based on the same mundane reality we all experience, only altered and ignited by our innate desire to be more than we are.
And the day will come when that young man realizes that there's nothing more rewarding than to have your moment, record it, process it, and then to let it go. From there you are truly free to do whatever it is that you wish. And right now, all I want is to go look on my family's smiling faces as I enter the room. That is what's real. That's the happy ending that no book will ever give you.
Stop typing. Stop reading.
This is the end.
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