Final 30 Days

 A wise man asked me long ago, “what would you do if you only had 30 days left?”

After much deliberation, I think I’ve figure out what.

First, I would scream. And shout. And yell. And Cuss. Swear. Cry, all the like. Then I would go kick my old physics teacher in the nuts. Not out of hate. But just to see the response; he is a pretty nut-kick able person.

I’d ask every girl on campus out, then cancel on all but one of those who said yes. I’d walk around, middle fingers up, without a care in the world of who might see. Laughing, into my car and away I go, from this damned place.

I’d climb a mountain, get to the top and just piss on it, “take that nature.” Maybe just try hunting, experience the beauty in Life’s end. Go back to that same mountain and drop to my knees, beg, shout, and ask why. Visit a philosopher and challenge every belief that they have.

The one thing I’d really want to do is scream and verbally abuse all the scumbags I know. Let them realize how their skulduggery and overall douchery, paired with narcissistic compulsive lying tendencies, makes them worth less than a bag of feces. They can’t even fertilize the food of our food. Below even the lowliest ant in the ground.

I’d go up north to where the rain rests, and think for a while. I would find a nice motel. Sit at the window, and stare. Watch the glossed over road, smitten with orange from the aged street lamps, and watch. Consume as the cars whizz by, invent memories, sonder away, lost in a bubble of stasis. For a day I would consider partying, but revoke the idea; for life is too beautiful to witness through lenses impure of ethanol and cannabis. Go to iceland for the Aurora Borealis, the poetry of our earth. I would visit with my grandparents, finally somebody who would know their mortality as much as I do.

But really I would just try to be happy. Match the leaps and bounds of my mind with the curvature of our hills. To feel in place and feel as though my anchor is here. A defined place and experience, in which it is mine and mine alone. Leave my Carbon-14 stamp on this world. Prolong my second death, in which no one speaks my name again. 

I would learn a song. On the piano, and recite it to those dearest to me. A pseudo suicide note, I would call it. One question, I would ask all of my friends. What do they really think of me? Am I actually a stuck up brat with snobbish mannerisms, viewed as a humble grandfather in our social circle; or perhaps they all hate me and are too nice to say it. Poppycock. But if I knew they were lying, or had a large inclination of such in their mannerisms, I would beg. Use my upcoming ticket as an excuse to get emotional and wrack their decision making with it. And really, I would just ask for honesty. I would run around and scream at the falsities they all disguise themselves with. All the insecurities I could destroy, knowing that none of it mattered for me. Only their seemingly infinite mortality protects them from being truthful and honest. But then I would beg the question, is it really living if it’s just lies?

I would relax for a day. That was some heavy stuff after all. I’d watch some good TV with a nice cup of coffee, wrapped up in a warm blanket; soothing both skin and soul. And perhaps I would go back and watch some shows of my youth. Avatar The Last Airbender, The Office, Scrubs, some other cheesy but undeniably good American Sitcoms.

I would ace one final test. Just to make sure I didn’t leave with something saying I was undevoted. In an attempt to be more worldly, I would discover more of my hometown. Take a drive up to the vineyards, just experience the ever growing expanse of green, vining out for miles. Hopefully it would let me understand a little bit more of myself.

I would ask my peers, “You all look at me with sorrow, but is it really me who you should be sorry for?” And explain that even though my life would not be long, it would be fun. And isn’t that what life is, to be happy and have fun?

Finally, on the last day, I would drive up into the mountains early in the morning. Watch the sunrise bounce off the mountain and let it set in my mind. Second by second, minute by minute, crafting an image like a cobbler with shoes. An image, this image, so so detailed that I could call upon it in whatever lies next. I would listen to the wind and animals, alone. And alone because I would go out the way I came in. Alone. There, I’d sit in my own eternity, listen to the wind say, “It’s okay,” and fade.