The perks of being dead.

‘You’re a dead guy,’ John quipped. I was curled up on the torn mattress placed at the edge of his room scrolling through my phone. He was talking to me. John (not his real name) wasn’t referring to my humus state, enmeshed in a labyrinth of worms. Nah. we obviously wouldn’t be having that conversation. All things being normal, of course.

I respected John, he was smart, really smart. Almost an honors student. He was tall,a bit quirky and loved series. Back in our 100 level, I told John that he shared surnames with my grandmother’s favourite dog. He laughed,shrugged it off….and we became friends. We were both direct and it played out in our friendship. Ours was the honest type. We ate, drank, made fun of people and we loved the thrill of being honest to each other. Telling the truth was law, not because we were good lads or any of that sort. No, quite the opposite actually. I think self deception was a common enemy. We both hated it. If something was ugly, we said it. If someone felt he/she was more special than what he/she actually was, then we’d let the person know. The sheer honesty was terror filled…cold and unrefined. It afforded us a certain connection enjoyed by a few. It understood each other.we had a certain connection with each other. So apparently, I wasn’t offended that John called me socially inept. That was what being dead was, chronic social awkwardness, plain and simple. It was just his way of caring…as twisted as it sounded. I laughed albeit sheepishly. But deep inside,something felt wrong. For the first time in a long while, I felt self conscious. The words actually got to me. It didn’t show of course. Tough love always wins. But the damage, was done…and I felt it.

I’ve never fit in, I mean I’ve tried to, so much so that I feel this overwhelming sadness when I don’t scream at soccer games. Or stay on social media for more than an hour, talking about random stuff. I’m pretty much average student,so it wasn’t the books or the genius that got me distracted. It was way more complicated. I felt I needed depth. I felt at some point that everything I experienced was shallow. I needed meaning. I was confused with my role in society in class, in my family, at my church. These were places that I spent most of my time. I never really had friends, just people I smiled with. And I did it like a pro. The isolation, the silence I once thrived upon became destructive. And it showed.

Eventually, I started caving in. I craved vulnerability, naked conversations…talks with friends where we would ramble on about how damaged we were, how we’d appreciate the scars, and the pain we experienced. I tried girls who thought they liked me. I was good to them.I gave attention. And they loved it. I’d text with my old blackberry, it was a good phone, it served me well. When talking with them I’d harness the art of humour.I was really good with jokes, and would relish the moments they’d laugh at my attempts at storytelling.

The lust, the attraction was intoxicating. It was a high, and then I’d crash, again. I was bored, it was an empty type of boredom. My life felt hollow and I’d do everything to fill it. Everyone I know has a society reset button within reach. Every one seems to do things they were supposed to. Not me I think. I’m not sure, sometimes at night I’d walk round my living room, conjuring different pictures in my head that could be put in blog posts, drawings, music, drama, pain., always thinking of the next disturbing thing to do, the next thought to satisfy. But they keep coming in, the thoughts, a barrage of them. Pounding at the door of my mind. it’s a disease, it’s misery. And each time I’m called to talk, to express myself, I’d relish every minute. Even the insane must vent. I don’t know what normalcy is, I don’t know what it feels like to not have to create, to tear yourself open, to not appreciate the darkness. ‘Don’t be too weird’, Ngozi ( not her real name) would always say. She meant well, she was my friend. I didn’t know what she meant, I’d smile and pretend to understand.

How can something that seems to kill you make you feel so alive. The flexibility, the ability to become anything.To engage with any social class and still feel at home is empowering. I don’t want to be believe in myself because I don’t completely know myself. I want change, good change, bad change whatever the hell they mean. I want the thrill of the damage that comes with being unusual. I choose to not have a self, to be nobody. To be agreed with today and hated tommorow. I might end up regretting this decision on my death bed-I don’t know. but I’ve grown to believe that Society is bad at setting metrics. So I wont let it set mine.

For now,i think.