Now, I've just watched the new installment of Kababalaghan, solely because I actually miss seeing Nole de Castro on my screen, so that's very much coloring what I'm attempting to write right now.
There seemed to be a theme with the stories featured this year, of spirits clinging on to the things that they left behind. Like, one story was (partly) about a rocking chair owned by an old woman, which was moved - maybe disposed of - after her death decades ago. "She liked that chair," the surprisingly attractive medium said, suggesting that maybe what they did long ago was not a good idea.
Now, if I die, which of the things in this flat would I cling on to?
You're being too morbid! you might think, and sure, I did suggest this was a bit of a thought exercise. But a couple of times these past few months I have woken up with vomit in my mouth and an inability to either swallow it or spit it out. I go to the fridge to drink water to help it along, but it doesn't help, and for several seconds I entertain the idea that this is how I'm going to die: choking on my own vomit, thanks to some sort of acid reflux I had never thought about before.
Of course, if I did die, no one will immediately know. No one but my cat, at least. By the time my parents realize that I'm not answering their texts and calls, it would probably be later in the day, if not a few days. (It's not that they don't care; I just don't always call.) I assume they'd rush over, so at least they would not see my body already rotting.
But, wait, that is too morbid. That is not the point of what I'm thinking about.
The things, Niko. The things.
That would be difficult, in part because I haven't really paid attention to these things, but mostly because as it stands, I am building a home here, so I would have an attachment to most of the things here. I bought the fridge, and the television, and the drawers, and the stove, many, many, many times. It's probably unlikely that I would attach myself to just one particular item and stick to it, with dire consequences for anyone who attempts to dispose of them.
So, I cling on to the entire flat, then? Good luck to whoever ends up living here, I suppose. My parents would rent the place out, and whoever lives here will not get any rest. I would be watching them make a life for themselves, and work and cook and play and sleep and fuck. I would be jealous, because I wanted to do that, and then I was told I can never deserve these things because I'm this and that. I am never forgiving you, you slut, and whoever gets haunted by my untimely passing will be your fault, ultimately.
Wait, sorry.
Not to you, but to you. Sorry. Anyway.
Yeah, this went too far, didn't it? Better to just keep quiet and not make a fool of myself, never mind my truths being my truths and all that.
Post a Comment