(441 words) 28 August 2018
By Steven R.A. Markin
Most of his time in the spring had been spent walking trails and enjoying the outdoors after a long Canadian winter of school and a rough breakup. The paths where his refuge, walking meditation is what he would tell people who stopped him to chat quickly. He was friendly and nice, and many people seemed to enjoy chatting with him, but he didn’t care to talk too long. He often wanted to keep moving. Keep the thoughts going and experience as much of the environment as he could.
The hikes came to an abrupt end one morning.
And nearly three months later, he still can’t seem to ease his mind, even after getting back to the gym, eating healthy and sleeping on schedule, speaking with counsellors, and enjoying conversations with his family and friends again. But unable to go back, and unable to feel like himself, even during a walk throughout the day as the helicopter would often fly overhead, just as it flys above, over and over again throughout the days, the early mornings, afternoons and late nights, and even slowed down on his way from school, as if stopping above to look down on him, reminding him and making him feel even worse of a person, like he is someone who is not.
He was told to regain his life back, he thought. To live again. He knows it deep down that he must live again because they don’t know him as his friends and family do. They only go off of assumptions. Maybe trying to ruin him just like the media so easily did without any evidence, with two broadcastings, in the newspaper, and a goddamn tweet. But of course, the news moves on to the next. Everyone does, but only him, he is left to walk with these thoughts of desecration feeling like he is a nobody in a city until his case is resolved. Resolved, he repeated to himself. Then what? Maybe he’ll get to go to school in the fall. Perhaps he won’t, he thought. Maybe bankruptcy will be enough to finally create the art that had so wonderfully graced his depression. But who creates art to make money, he thought. Money, he laughed saying to himself. Money is all that they are interested in. He told the truth, and now the truth is, he would rather be another failing artist who escapes in his paintings, a recluse, than someone who makes others feel like shit. And maybe one day, someone will hang one of his paintings with a smile instead of the tears and heartbreak it took for him to colour the blank canvas.