Suicidal thoughts in Barnes&Noble /Immigrant Stories/

Immigrant Stories

Suicidal thoughts in Barnes&Noble.

When you are an immigrant, you are a cultural – nobody. That’s how I feel at least. I try to squeeze myself, cut myself, change myself, convince myself, but the only thing left is the emptiness and boredom of lifeless existence between the shelfs of Barnes & Noble, looking for an inspiration, for something to move me, to connect to my empty self. The days, the past, the now, and the future blend into a long, tasteless, boring vomit, divorced from any meaning. I don’t remember why I came here and what propelled me to take this unreasonable, stupid step. Maybe it was anger, I don’t know. My mind doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

Suicidal thoughts between Barnes & Noble shelfs. Suicidal thoughts in the Barnes & Noble elevator, suicidal thoughts on the Barnes & Noble first, second and the third floor.

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Deadfall. Prose poem.

Stuffy, ghastly hot day in New York isn’t promising anything good. In the evening, in between the stale air one after another mad yells and screams are exploding in the tiny apartments on my street. I am wondering how many murders were committed tonight. And there was a war in my apartment as well, which made me feel absolutely deserted, but strangely light and philosophical at the same time. I wasn’t thinking about murder though, although I did feel a new kind of cold hatred; suicide always felt like a closer option according to my nature. I looked through the window. Why isn’t anybody balancing on the roof.  Why are people so quiet and enduring this hatred which trickle from every brick tonight. This silent hatred in the middle of nothing. Cruel, cruel evening. I opened a window again. Somebody, a wild tiger is tearing someone’s guts. Just here, in front of my eyes, on the pavement. I see it, I look at it, but really can’t do anything about it. The night screams. I need to close the window. I hope I will not wake up again.

Undirected mind

I need a relieve from my undirected mind. Let him be the way he is. Let him flow. No censure, no fear. I see, the classroom filled with us, the teacher, the wooden bench and black blackboard. Look straight ahead, don’t blink. Now I want to cry, I am scared, even though I am the best…no, it’s my sister…the teacher has black hair, she is old and stiff and she hates those kids, and my sister is not the best…my mom comes to school to scrub the floor, that’s what the parents are asked to do, to help, the school, the great socialist school, the class is in the corridor, the school is big, the school is huge, there is a baby boom, no place , no place, they are building a bigger school, just next, behind the park, it’s almost ready, we will all move there next year. I am still too young, but I already know, you will be miserable if you are not that smart, but I’m the best, the best, the best one around.

Why my mind went there, I really don’t know, the school in the park and her, what was this teacher’s name, I don’t know, just heard that she was a witch. I see the ground, brown path and silence, we are going to our block of flats. My father is silent, my mother is quiet and my head is somewhere in the clouds.

And I do feel worthless, now, all the time, worthless and sad and not lucky. It’s hard to be me, to scared to be me, out of fear to offend the authority. I am such a mouse, I would like to hide, behind the bookshelf, the corner or under the bed, or just practice acrobatics on the verge of the bridge over the dirty river of Białucha.