It has taken me around 10 hours to understand that the painful feeling inside is not less than the existence of a man who never loved a woman. Yes, it’s true. I’ve witnessed this on the repeated cacophony of this man’s screams.
Try to hold a thought you worry about and keep it in mind for days to come. This is how this man felt each day of his life.
Shobo, this is his name I know. His real identity never made any sense to my mind to remember even. He causes the perfect chaos to let a person suffer. He says the exact words to put thousand knives in a person’s chest. He eats like a rational animal. This is how a little outside world knows about him that he is a sick man, trying to do something good.
For me, Shobo is a man that never wanted to do anything useful. His fantasies and painful life created him as the dark, chaotic personality of unloved and unwanted monster. And, I loved him for no other reason than the self-preservation.
In my world, storytellers start their stories with constructive elegant words to lure a reader and play with their feelings. In his world, things are quite the same in stories. But his story does not begin on the elegant constructive wording, instead it starts with the painful execution of happiness.
It was a cold and weary night when Shobo decided that he could not live anymore. He made this decision after thinking about all the possible consequences he could gather in his mind. He was hurt and tired. The only way seemed fit to cope the suffering was to give in to the fear he could not let go. The fear of dying! He did not know that on the edge of dying, he would meet a woman, he would not forget.
Shobo checked the doors, the people he loved, his cat and the beloved journal. Dying might feel the easiest way out, but it took grave darkness inside to go after it. He wondered what those people felt when they prepared for death. He concluded that those people never lived to tell the stories and he would not be the one to tell even.
I never observed a man that determined to prepare to leave for a place, which would never make him feel anything. I felt disputed sacredness in his actions that night. He went to his bathroom, undressed and masturbated. He brushed his teeth with patience and accurate techniques. He bathed patiently. He wore his favourite nightclothes and looked himself in the mirror. He must be feeling like the achieved man. I knew he was stepping in the storms that he would never cross.
Should not I feel pity or even warn him what was about to come? I did not care. I never wanted to make him a distraction to my life. He smiled the last in the mirror because he felt he was getting what he desired all these years. And, he was wronged in each favourable attraction in his life. He doomed himself of the feelings he thought he could trust. I watched him cry and grieve for the people and things that meant nothing to me. And, I could only see him self-sabotaging everything every time and everywhere.
This time, he chose a blade for the deed. He carefully cut his wrists and sat on the sofa. At that moment, I was sure that I would see him again soon. And, he would leave again. It was not interesting what was going inside his mind. I knew the disturbing thoughts and actions. He kept distracting his mind from calling for help. A single call for help would save his life with the pain he could not understand.
Pain leads to the singularity that cannot surpass the understanding and soul’s mind to make something better of it. It demands more of it. It collects more of it. This is how a person dies. The pains dissolve into the happiness that never fails to amaze. As the intoxicating dizziness covers the reasons and believes, you begin to smile and die. Death is simple and painful. It is the life that complicates everything in knowledge. The eyes get lighter with the purpose that they will not see another bright light to openness. This is how a soul departs from pain.
I began to enjoy the ways Shobo was trying. He must feel frustrated for the believes he never left. He must believe that his love is not painful. Or, at least that he did not want to die because of the painful emotional turmoil ever present with him.
Shobo closed his eyes in the belief that he would not wake up to another choice he had to make each morning. The night might close this man’s wish in granting the abomination of his mind. Then only, there was the door’s breaking sound and the very first words out of his mother’s mouth were of no use.
“What have you done again?” She cried for his dying son. “I tried to keep you save. I did. I will do it again. Just don’t die.”
Shobo’s mother had a thin, womanly body and regrets in her eyes. Her clothes spoke of riches and poor alike. I wished her not to save him. He deserved this much of his life.
And, I kept affirmed where I should have. I had a lot to see of his life before he went out to live again. Might be he would understand why he felt a world’s pain inside him. Might be his grief never was understood. That’s how his obsession started and ended for death!