SKETCHING

Charlie's life had always been about resourcefulness. Surely, he was not against practical or material help – giving one or two eggs to the guy next door for the sake of being neighbourly did not annoy him. What truly bugged him about that widespread culture of false-selflessness was the belief that an almighty individual could lift you out of your shit without you feeling like you've grown because you didn't scrape the shit off with your own bare hands. Therefore, Charlie always felt aloof – he purposefully used that word because it invoked archaic echoes into his proud ears and seemed to give grandeur and depth to his mental remoteness, making it seem more legitimate and rubbing off the part where he might be perceived as a total dickhead.

He had always been in that fragile position growing up, always feeling like he could not achieve something directly without someone getting in the way to give the process a little push. He could not comprehend administrative papers for shit, always struggled to give back his works in due time, kept begging the secretaries to forget about his not coming to class without mentioning the fact that he had been to preoccupied with his joints and his imaginary longings to bother getting up from his death-bead.

The thing is he had always managed to stay sane without ever talking about the crazy crap whirling around in his head. His surface was very smooth, always thought of and intellectualized so as to convey the right image to the public. Each time he caught someone slightly staring at him, he couldn't help but rearrange some strand of hair that would have got in the way of the perfect haircut. Charlie was not like those imbecile girls you can always see in teen films, fighting over a title as prom queen or anything. His inner battle was more subtle, creeping its way down from the back of his mind to his belly, turning into a weighty ball of misery. Manage is definitely the right term, there's something about it that tells of the concept of resourcefulness aforementioned. Things never stayed knotted, Charlie was a solver and no shit could reach even the tiniest part of his little finger.

He managed when he saw his dad banging his sister-in-law.
He managed when he saw his mother pushing that needle into her arm.
He managed when he understood there would not be enough money to pay for his literary education.
He managed all of that and did not even go nuts – Nathaniel could go fuck himself, it didn't matter anymore.

His surface was very smooth, until it was not.
(...)

Sometimes I feel like I'm falling asleep. Of course, it might seem quite peculiar to say shitty things like this – I can already hear your comments – but what I'm trying to say is that sometimes I feel like I'm falling in a state of sleepiness. All of my being becomes numb, body and soul, taking a nap happily even though I'm wide awake. I do not realize it when it happens, but I can stay completely still for hours if there's nobody to shake me up. You see that guy, at the edge of that fucking cliff? That's me. My name is Charlie Rutherford and I'm fucking nuts. I thought that everything would be okay after coming back from the zoo she locked me in, I thought I'd be tough. I've spent two years liking every post on Tumblr with shitty pictures and catch-phrases like “what doesn't kill you makes you stronger” or something. I can see myself smiling when hitting the little heart at the bottom and feeling like yep indeed, after all the shit I had been through, I definitely was a stronger person. But heh, want to learn something? Ain't no getting stronger if you're already dead. I'd have consulted you know, but how do you begin to explain to a fucking shrink that you've been sent to a place even George Lucas couldn't have imagined without being sent to a freaking place for crazy people. I know, I know, I'm nuts. But you know, I'd rather spend my days crying in bed, alone, smoking a little joint and pretending everything's gonna be okay than killing myself accidentally because I punched my head too hard against the walls of my asylum room.

We're in England at the moment, in the Isle of Man. Yep. Out of all the beautiful places we could find in England, I decided to come here. I don't know why, maybe the fact that nobody ever hears about the Isle of Man told me it ought to be fucking great. Maybe I was feeling like starting a therapy and isolating myself from any kind of human life – because yeah, that place is a fucking desert – would fix me. But here I am, standing at the edge of a cliff, asleep. There's one nice thing about this place: at least nobody is here to say how weird it is for a guy to be standing completely still at the edge of a fucking cliff. Don't get me wrong, I don't wanna kill myself and jump; at least I don't think so. But you know, there's some symbolism here. The Sublime, Romanticism, just the fact that standing there makes me look deep or something. That's probably the only time that I'll look like a Byronic Hero – anyway, who would want to look like one? I'm supposed to feel blessed, to enjoy the beauty of nature, to inhale the air and feel like god is penetrating me. The thing is, God must have no dick because I feel fucking empty. I'll always be amazed at the occurrences of bad words in my cracked head, I never say those out loud – I guess that's why one calls the mind the secret garden. Well, once again, the metaphor doesn't suit me because there's no fucking flower in my head. Just a dull black colour and all of those fucking bad words crossing it in flashes and making me feel like a prick for swearing that much.

Yesterday she told me I looked better. I was like yeah thanks, my condition has really improved and I don't feel like a fucking vegetable anymore. I didn't say it like that but the point is that I'm a good liar. I've spent my whole life lying about being okay so I've kinda become an expert. But you know, she's got kids now, she is a mom, who could've believed it? She was the nuts one. She was the one rolling the joints up when we were kids. And now she's a mom and she's got to take care of me too? I'm such a bloody mess. But at least, as soon as she's with me, I wake up. I wake up and sometimes I smile; I wake up, smile and I swear it feels true. I still smoke joints in order for it to seem even truer, but I smile. Yeah, two years ago I quit smoking thanks to the garden of Eden she put me in, I was okay during the first months but then I fucked a guy I found on Grindr (this app is fucking revolutionary, I don't know how I was able to get laid when we were younger) and he was like “d'you wanna smoke a little?” and you know how it is after sex. Yep, me too. I was craving for that joint and I was addict again as soon as it was in my mouth. But you know what? I like feeling like I'm in wonderland for most of the day, ain't nobody telling me it's bad, 'cause if I don't have it I'd rather take out my own eyes with a fork.

You see that stunning mom behind me? Yep. That hottie MILF aka most searched porn tag ever? That's Mohn and she's gonna wake me fucking up – or push me down the cliff 'cause it'd be so much more convenient.