A Pond

A tired man sits at a dining room table by the window of his apartment. He sits with his thoughts as the evening sun illuminates the world through the clouds. To his left, he is joined by another man, who is smoking a cigarette. The rain plays drums on the glass in some lost rhythm that brought an instinctual peace to the two. No words were shared between the two in an understanding that moments such as these must be bottled up and kept forever, a reminder that life has emotions to offer yet. They sit in contemplative silence.

Do you want a cigarette? The man with the cigarette asks, motioning with the one in his hand. 

No thank you, the tired man replies. I don’t smoke.

Ah, I see, the man with the cigarette replies. More for me.

The tired man sits for a moment before speaking again. Do you ever wonder where we go after we die? He says.

That is quite the conversation starter.

I know, I’m just curious. The tired man taps his foot to the cadence of the rain in anticipation of an answer.

There must be something, he answers after some time. An empty void does not seem reasonable to me.

I see.

What do you think?

The tired man thinks for a moment. I do not know, he begins. All I know is that I will be prepared for when God or nature or the universe takes me there. Or when I do.

That last thought piqued the other man’s interest. What do you mean ‘when I do’? He asks.

I mean when I take myself out, the tired man replies. Or if, I can’t be sure yet. That puts the man with the cigarette to silence for some time.

I’m sorry, the tired man continues. I shouldn’t have said that.

Don’t be. I was just caught off guard, is all.

That’s fair.

They both go quiet for a moment. The scent of freshly brewed coffee comes from the kitchen behind the two. The smell is grounding, able to take anyone down from a cloud they find themselves upon. The two men would compare it to the earthy scent of the rain outside if the window was cracked open.

One moment, the tired man says. My coffee is finished. Would you like some too?

No thank you, the other man replies. The tired man promptly moves over to the kitchen, a few steps behind the men. It is small and quaint and empty of anything minus the essentials. The man comes back with a cup of coffee and takes a sip, somewhat rejuvenated by the burning sensation it provides. A brief respite from that indomitable fatigue that burdens the man.

Do you plan to kill yourself? The man with a cigarette asks. The sudden question takes the tired man off guard and he takes a moment to think.

Not right now, he replies, taking a sip from his coffee. I used to, briefly. I probably will again in the future.

Wow, the man with a cigarette whispers in response. How did you start thinking this way?

What do you mean?

Most are terrified of the thought of suicide, much less talking about it. What makes you so at peace with it? The tired man ponders on this question for a moment.

I was not in the best state as a teenager, he starts. I was depressed and naturally the thought of suicide came with. It scared me at first but I found myself playing around with the idea after I grew accustomed to it.

The man took a moment to think and come up with some sort of justification for his thoughts. The man with a cigarette did not seek justification. Only understanding. And he waited for it with a cigarette that was nearly burnt to his hand.

Imagine those thoughts as a pond, the tired man began again. I had come across it and out of curiosity I started skipping a stone across it with me attached. The stone explored the pond and it was fun for a moment until the stone sunk too far and took me with it. And in that second I had doomed myself to be stuck in the pond for the rest of my life.

The man with a cigarette waited for a moment for the tired man to continue but nothing more was said.

That was not the best metaphor, the man said in response.

I know, the tired man replies. Give me a break. I’m tired.

The tired man takes another sip of his coffee. He no longer feels energized by it.

One does not toy with the idea of suicide that long without it becoming a part of themselves, the tired man continued finally. I think about it every day, when I see a car driving or a drop from a large height. A knife. I do not get to escape from it because a deeper part of me knows it will probably be how I leave the world.

How are you not tormented by this? I would be driven insane.

I was for a while. And truthfully, there is no way I’m still completely sane. But it does not bother me as much anymore. It helps, sometimes.

Helps? How is that possible?

I’m not really afraid of messing up badly anymore. I want to live a good life, of course, but the one good thing about killing yourself is that it is your one true eject button. If something ever goes so bad that I cannot recover I can just leave.

That sounds like an unhealthy mindset. What if you do it impulsively?

That would be a valid concern for some others but one good thing about me is that I am patient, and the other good thing about killing yourself is that you can do it whenever you want. There is never a rush to do it because you have full control over it when you can’t control anything else. I will tell you that when my mom died I had considered it for a moment, long enough to commit, but I didn’t. I waited. And in that wait I found friends and family that cared about me and goals I could still strive for, so I stayed here.

The cigarette in the other man’s hand finally burnt out so he put it in the ashtray and took another and lit it. Smoke of its soul trailed from the end loosely into the air before disappearing from sight forever.

There is no way I could live like that, the man with the cigarette said. I would never be okay.

This managed to get a chuckle out of the tired man. One thing others liked about him is that he could still find a laugh in anything and perhaps that perspective could only come from someone who had teetered on the edge of the cliff and lived. When you look Death in the eyes in such a way it makes one realize the futility in taking everything seriously. It all ends the same.

It is not a mindset for everyone, the tired man replied, a final chuckle escaping his lungs. There is an argument to be made that I would be a better person if I was scared of death but that ship has sailed so I have no use in dwelling on it. I’ve been told more than once that others are proud of me so I must be doing something right. I must be helping somehow.

That’s good, the man with the cigarette remarks. I can certainly tell you that you’ve given me much to think about.

Is that a good thing?

We’ll have to see.

The two men talked for a while longer and after some hours the man with the cigarette left and the tired man was alone again. Then he woke in the morning and went to work and that was that. The two men remained on talking terms and perhaps grew into something closer but it did not end well and the tired man found himself waiting patiently for a turnaround. He still had his friends and some of his family and like last time he found himself his life again. Perhaps the tired man went on to live a long and happy life or faced some tragedy or hit the eject button, but when that time came he greeted Death like an old friend and found that he could finally get some true rest for once in his life.