Sweet Escape

He sat by the edge of the cliff waiting for the sun to rise. A strong cold breeze hit him with mighty force and for a moment he thought it would toss him around like a child's plaything. “Never mind,” he thought, “just a few more hours of this.” Let the wind toss him around, in a matter of hours he would not be under the influence of such worldly things. The power was to come to him. The dream had told him to come at this place and wait for the sunrise. At sunrise he would fulfil his destiny. Fate was calling.

Like most people, he had a terrible childhood. Life in itself was a toil worthy of great effort that demanded the utmost of him. He was never the one “who drew pictures of mountain tops with him on top.” Yes, things were bad, but he realized that was how life was. Yet, the next day, when his friends and acquaintances were to find about his act, they would sit down in shock. None could be expected from such a charming fellow as he. However he put it, it was one disappointment after the other. He was one of the wise ones who had lost faith in humanity a long time ago.

He stood up and checked his watch. It was almost time. The wind had died down, almost as if the whole world was coming to a standstill to witness the momentous occasion. Every being, living or not, would stop in its path and admire the courage of he who took on the world. Slowly he reached into his bag and felt for his can of spray paint. This was not part of the dream, but the ever-ebullient aesthetic person that he was, he knew the value of presentation. He let a smile escape onto his face as he thought of what he was going to do, and what he was going to write. It was probably the first real smile he had experienced in years. With a spring he got to his feet and pulled open the lid of the can. With great care, like a master sculptor giving the final touches to an elegant marble statue, he went about spray painting the rocky surface. The smile was almost beginning to turn to a laugh now. He was expressing himself, his true feelings, he always felt happiest when he did that. Being the presence of humans however, he had to keep them to himself.

He had always found it hard to deal with the human race. They were a wondrous creation he thought, not stopping for a moment to think that he also was one of the species that he despised the most. Their betraying, hate-spreading ways had made him disillusioned of the world. After all, the humans were the kings of the world, however much he disliked it. Early on, he had made the great mistake of imagining that everyone inherently had a good nature, and they turn evil only under the most exceptional of circumstances. Thus, he was prone to forgive small deterrences from the expected behaviour, meanwhile building a great dislike for himself for not being able to live well with that race. He always tried to see others in a good light, while forgetting to see himself in one; he spent all his time cleaning the windows to look outside, while not stopping to clean the mirror. If one were to think that his fellow humans stayed away from him, then one would be severely mistaken. He had always been loved by all, though he did not believe in such an artifical emotion given the inherently evil nature of human beings. Everyone loved him for his sense of humour, his charm, his affable presence, he was the one to spend time with. Still he felt aloof of all this. It was as if he was in Venice, surrounded by everyone singing love songs and the dream gondolas rowing the most dreamy of places that Venice is. However, being in Venice, everyone wore the Venetian mask, beguiling their true nature under that most basic of disguises. He knew that what they were showing was not their true self. And it was not as he was wearing a mask too, he was the fool at the ball. Everyone danced in their elaborate dresses and their masks firmly placed against their faces, while he stood in the middle, the fool, trying to entertain the dancers.

It was time, the sun had risen. The message was on the rock. Freedom, Redemption, it was coming his way. Slowly he made his way to the edge of the cliff and stood to smell the blossoming flowers through his human nose for one last time. He imagined a thousand faces around him, everyone in their Venetian masks, everyone pointing at him, laughing. They were all trying hard to stop laughing, but they could not. It was the fool, they had to laugh! He shrugged their indifference; he had not been loved, no one came to him, no one listened to him, even the sandman refused to come to him. It was all in the past now. With one great breath, he imagined the wind suddenly picking up pace as anticipating his act, he jumped from the cliff.... A warmth went through his previously frigid body and he felt the orgasmic experience of falling down into the wind. He was flying, he would not be human anymore, he would fly. It was fucking brilliant. Fucking fucking fucking fucking brilliant, he smiled.

As the sun slowly made its way to the heaven, lumbering up into the sky, it shone with subdued brilliance on his last message to the world, the one that would make its way into a small picture in a small newspaper column in a lowly-circulated newspaper : “God is me”