My death was blamed on the urge to knock things off the tables, pushing piles of paper when pissed off. In my life, anger, arrogance, pride were mostly what I had. The wittier I was, the more confident I felt. The more insolent I was, the more invincible I felt. The more dominating I was, the superior I felt.
Once upon a late workday, I, an over-caffeinated Journalist, was working on a story for my day job. I hated the job but loved that I could be surrounded by words, sentences, and stories. I detested that I could not write for myself, for this damned job left me tired each day. I felt all sorts of confusions about this job. Hatred, gratitude, fear, stagnation, passion, laziness, eagerness. One surety I felt about myself was Remorse. I was sorry that I didn’t muster up the brute strength, mental devotion, and emotional bravery to write what I wanted to write about. A literary fiction novel.
I gave up the act of writing. When three years ago, they hired me, The Newspaper Company (TNC) said I am skilled to be a part of their team. They see a bright future for me. I could be one of those who commit long-term and build a career in their esteemed corporation.
I nodded—they did know—to assure them.
But I pled to them silently—they didn’t know—to teach me how to acquire the skill to mourn the loss of my aspiration? To be a manic who is polarized between its want and its need.
How could I tell them—and how could they even help—that I wanted to be a published author? To tell them please do not select me for this job role, and I will trust the Universe that only writing is meant for me? How do I grieve this time, for it’s my writing that left me? My broken heart was disappointed in itself for not being stubborn enough, but it was grateful to them for being gracious enough. For the moment I had a paycheck. But each passing moment I missed my dream.
And what is a dream? Why do I dream? Why do I close my eyes and pray and yearn and wish and ache? What are desires? Aspirations? Why do I want and need? Cravings? In the face of reality, what is longing anyway? And please somebody tell me what could be worse than giving up my dream? The living breath in me sighed that I give up my dream. It was especially cruel because my dream too gave me up.
And so, embittered, that late work evening, I swore I only loved coffee and not this world and its people. I bombed myself on nitro and triple-espresso. I felt high. I felt the jolt. I felt I was flying. Well, I was flying. I was lifted up and above. No, really I was floating away.
My body failed. I died. I was born into this world with the dreams of being a published author. However, I died as an unpublished author.
***
Dysfunctional Coffee/Cat Person: Argh! Why couldn’t I have been re-sent as the Grinch, if you were so into this fuckery?
GodDog-or-Whatever-But-a-Cat-or-a-Human: The Grinch is fictional. And this is not fuckery. This is the law.
DCP: The law? The law of what! You taught me that laws are man-made concepts. Illusions. Convenience based assumptions. So that we all do not end up killing each other.
GodDog: You misunderstand. The Law is not the judiciary or legislative or constitutional BS all your nations have. The law of intention.
DCP: Are you allowed to cuss?
GodDog: Aren’t you? You and I are the same.
DCP: I am nothing like you. I hate humans. You love them.
GodDog: And that’s why you are a cat now. And you live with a PERSON now. So cough up that Love Madam!
DCP: Yes, but you are forcing me to be around people! These motherfuckers. I hate them! I don’t live with anybody! I live in my home.
Yes, after I died, GodDog info-dumped on me a lot of things:
- GodDog is God. Not a Dog. It knows all.
- All the Laws. Laws of Being.
- I was a Person. Now I am a Cat.
- I LIVE WITH SOMEBODY! WTF!
- How I am sent back to earth.
- And a lot of other things.
- I HAVE A BLOODY ROOMMATE! A MAN! ugh!!!
And bloody hell I can say one thing!!! (Fuck this shit) I must go back to being the person I was!!!