Moments

CW: Suicide or self-harm; Mental health

Moments. Life is all about these little moments that make you feel the most alive.

I am in one such moment, at this moment. I should stop saying moment. Because you know, when you repeat a word for an abnormal amount of time, the word itself starts sounding weird. As if it is a string of letters designed to sound in a way by god knows who, for god knows what reason that it should sound and feel and mean a certain thing in life. There are many such words and sentences we come across in life that sometimes describe us, represent us, or are just labelled FOR us by someone that stick, just like the word 'Moment", whose meaning was attached by some clever-ass intellectual back in the day.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Moments. At this very moment, a bullet is sifting through the air like a rocket and is charging towards me with an ambition. With more ambition than I ever had in my life. And you know what they say, it is in those moments where you can literally perceive death catching up to you. When you know you have no longer than a second left to live. That is when your whole life flashes in front of your eyes, when each millisecond becomes a lifetime full of memories for you to revisit and relive. Ugh!

But it's funny how that is NOT what is happening to me at all. With the sound of the bullet cracking the tension in the air, all I could think about was firearms.

Silly things these firearms. I remember the first time I ever held one. My dad. Sorry. My father. Sorry. My sir. He was strict. You get the gist. I had to address him as "Sir, yes, sir!" Because that is what gave his life meaning. Teaching a young boy such as me, who has barely stepped into the age of double digits, to call him sir. Funnily, nobody ever called him that. It was just me. That, too, because he insisted that I do so.

So, we were walking through the woods and stupid enough that I was, I asked him if this was necessary. Because who wouldn't want to walk through the woods in the middle of the day, tracking down a bear to kill so that they can boast about it to... nobody. "I'm sorry? What did you say?" I put my head down and repeated myself, "Do we have to really do this, SIR..." "That's right." he was proud of himself for putting me in my place. "Yes... Yes, it is, son." He said as he took a few inaudible footsteps deeper into the woods.

"If you are out to become a man, you ought to learn the deeds of men. Hunting down a man-eating bear is one of 'em..." He said in an accent that I no longer remember. "Remember, your father was just 8 years old when he skinned a wild boar in this very forest without anybody's help!" he exclaimed proudly, which was completely false. I know because my mother told me years after he died.

So, I, a barely 10-year-old child, walked by his proud father in those woods, pissing myself every moment I could think of, when suddenly he stopped me. My dad, my father, my sir. "Shhh... shhh.. shh.... See that?" he asked me, as if I had a freaking clue what he was talking about. But I played along. "Uh huh... Yessir," I said. "Here, remember what I taught you," he said and shoved the long-ass rifle into my hands." He slowly guided the rifle toward the direction he wanted me to shoot. "Take a deep breath. Clear your mind." He said in an oscillating tone. Which, I am not gonna lie, was quite soothing at that time. "NOW!" he shouted so hard that I just pulled the trigger. Adrenaline was pumping, and I could hear my heart beating out of my throat. I felt like a MAN" My father stood there, looking in the direction that I had fired at. I looked at him, hoping for a bit of residual pride that he had, leak out in my direction. But he sighed and looked at me, "You Fucking IDIOT!" He barked. "You missed the shot by a mile!" "Oh." My head slumped, and I knew then that the label would stick. Ugh!

It's funny how these things occur in such a weird order in your head. One moment, you are about to die, and another moment, you are thinking about the smell. The smell of gunpowder wafted into the air from the bullet that was fired. The same bulled that is now much... much closer than it was a few milliseconds ago. But the smell, Hmmm... The smell reminded me of something. Someone very important. The love of my life. My sweet Mother of Mary. I mean, her name was Mary. Don't know why I thought that in those exact words at this moment.

Mary was a ray of sunshine. Soon after my dad, my father, my sir decided to pass away from a serious condition of a heart attack, which is not at all related to his macho lifestyle and habits of a regular hourly beer with a greasy stake every meal of the day. I DID NOT wait even a single moment to run away as far as possible from anything that reminded me of him.

And as life has it, you go to college, you get a job, you meet a Mary, and you fall in love. That is what happened to me as well. Mary was the complete opposite of my father or my mother. She hated guns and anything nearly as masochistic as a MAN. A heyllooo! I should say she hit a jackpot with that. And she was not nearly as tolerant as my mother. In fact, she wasnt tolerant at all.

But she always smelt so... so great. She always had a breath of fresh air about her. Confident, demanding, opinionated and fierce. Everything I was looking for in a woman. She had values she stood by, and she would stand up for people she considered her own. I was lucky, truly lucky to have her.

Along with these beautifully crafted personality traits of hers that have nothing to do with her own baggage from the past. She was also obsessed with ART. Yes, you read that right! What a leap, eh?! From Guns to Roses!

I remember the first time she picked up this new art form and became obsessed with it. Crochet, weird word that. It was the only time that I had understood that a task so mundane, which requires absolutely the least muscle movement, something that grandmas do for fun, is in fact a tedious one. "There is so much to learn from crochet!" she exclaimed. I loved that about her, how she got excited about the little things. Ofcourse, at that time i hadnt really told her that i loved her. I was trying to find the best time to do so. So I started learning Crochet, as a gesture to show how much I cared for her, how much I cared about the things that she cared about. Believe it or not, once you go down that spiral, there is no coming back. Just the sheer number of types of knots that exist in the world of Crochet alone is worth studying. Each knot means something different, something special, something that the other knot cannot possess.

It is extremely difficult. But I did it. I learnt the craft she loved, and I knit matching sweaters for her and me that we can wear on Christmas when we invite our beloved friends and family. I even sprayed them a few times with the cologne that she always wears. The smell of which always makes me happy. It is such a happy smell, if smells can feel happy, that is. So I waited eagerly for her to come home so I could break the big news: I love her with all my heart and would do anything for her. As I paced around in the hall, gathering the courage. I opened a few windows to let some fresh air in, but soon shut them back because I was afraid the fragrance from the sweaters would dissipate. So i waited, in that closed hall of ours until i heard the door click. I quickly sprung to my feet as i heard her come in. I was so excited; I wanted to hug her tightly and scream that she was the love of my life and that nothing in the world could change my mind. So I did, I leapt from where I was standing and hugged her. And then, just as I was about to say those three magical words, she smelled like gunpowder. Ugh!

It's funny how life turns out. You try to run away from your past, and it always has a way of catching up to you. As the bullet was inching ever so closer to my forehead. I couldnt help but relive these moments in my mind. Somehow, my thoughts suddenly became deeply philosophical. Was that what life was all about? Are we all destined to experience life without any sort of control over it? Why then, when you think things are going so well, does life have a way of punching you in the face with some good ol' trauma?

As the bullet travelled towards me, close enough that if i take a step towards it, i could kiss it. I started to wonder. Wonder about how the pistol belonged to the memory of my father, how I tied the trigger of the pistol with a knot that i learnt from my gunpowder-smelling girlfriend. Its funny how i just did not take the pistol and just shoot myself in the head and get it over with.

It's funny how I chose to place the pistol, tied it with a thread and stood at a distance to pull the thread, which would pull the trigger, and I could see the bullet travel towards me. Because such was life lately, I had nothing to look forward to except the stupid, mundane things I did that made no sense. Or maybe there WAS some logic behind it.

Suddenly the bullet stopped mid air, "You fucking idiot" Ugh! I knew that label would stick.

"Of course, there is logic behind it." Weird that the bullet is giving me a life lesson right now, but okay. Whatever.

"You made such an elaborate effort to kill yourself because it wasnt your fault." Said the bullet.

"Uhh... Excuse me? It does not make sense." I blurted out back at the bullet.

The bullet put on spectavles and intellectually looked back at me before saying. "It wasnt your fault that your father was a masochistic, narcissistic pig who revelled in being called "Sir" by his own son. It wasnt your fault that you grew up being afraid of him and everything he stood for. It wasnt your fault that you ran away the first chance you got. It wasn't your fault that you fell for a woman who was the opposite of your father but similar to him in a weird way. It wasnt your fault that in the most important moment of your life you found out that she had cheated on you." The bullet spoke with such clarity that my mind started spinning and my heart started racing.

"Wait a minute. Why am I a fucking idiot again?" I asked the bullet as if it had all the answers in the world.

"Because you are not the product of what happens to you. You are the product of how you react to what happens to you. and right now. At this very moment, you are about to be a person whose brains are all over the floor." I gulped as the bullet spat this out at me.

"Okay. Don't be offended. But one last question. So what does all this have to do with my tying the gun with a string?" The bullet let out a disappointing sigh before spitting out another truth.

"Because it represents your state of mind. This scenario, ME-the talking bullet! and your not so idiotic brain is trying to tell you that you did this so you could have one last chance to think about your actions and react for GOOD! Because at this moment, a moment so minute in the grand scheme of all the moments that life has to offer, you have the chance to turn things around. Go on, live a life you wish to live and get hurt as well. But understand that the only thing that defines you is how you react to life as it comes at you!"

The bullet grew larger as it screamed at me, "SO FOR ONCE IN YOUR FUCKING LIFE. Making the IDIOTIC choice of doing the right thing!" and so as the bullet grew larger and larger and it inched closer and closer, I ducked.

Moments huh. Phew!