Hold On

by Asfandyar

The heater’s on and it’s not really cold. My hoodie lies on the chair, and my cat’s stretched himself sparse on my legs, inside the duvet.

Applications, applications, applications, applications.

The light flickers. Or, at least, I think it flickers. I need to get my eyesight checked; constant headaches for months now. Maybe it’s a tumor. Maybe I’ll have a little pity party for myself if that’s the case. I’ve always imagined myself sick – a broken leg, a tumor, a benign cancer, shattered ribcage, etc -, wondering how the world would react around me. I don’t know if that’s narcissism or an attempt to gauge some semblance of self-worth.

It doesn’t matter though. There are few things we’re certain of in this world, very few. Death is one of them. The fallibility of human relationships is another.

It’s not worth listening, I hear myself say. It’s the voice that loves the idea of self-destruction, of self-loathing. It’s the voice that doesn’t ever care. Things, people, circumstances, none of them ever change, it argues. For some reason, the voice is scratchy and whiny, the sound a rake makes when it’s being dragged across concrete. It’s painful and overwhelming.

“It’s the end,” I hear her say. Or maybe that’s what I think. That annoying rake voice is also a pretty handy ventriloquist. It’d be easier, of course. Extremely easy. I’ve been here before. I’ve made things easy for myself plenty of times. I’ve avoided work plenty of times. It’s easy to fall back into old habits – it’s easy because regardless of whether they’re ultimately good for you or not, they’re comfortable. They feel like home. They feel like you. That’s why they’re habits.

“It’s the end,” I hear her say. I think it’s her. It sounds like her. She has a point too. I can hear her fingers tap the table, and her leg spazzing out underneath the table. I want to put my hand on her knee and look at her, ask her to stop. I want to put my hand on that knee, where it’s been before so many times, where it’s been comfortable so many times. But, strangely, I can’t be bothered. It’s too much work, you see. It’s work that shouldn’t exist, but does.

I want to tell her it’s easier now. For me, anyway.

I find myself, strangely, wishing Jason Molina didn’t exist.