He had awaited a tragedy all his life. He wanted it. He desired it; the nihilistic self-destructive streak of his tilted him to the ground everyday so he could fall with a thud. On most days, his head was good and he walked alright. However, there were days when he fell, and the ‘thud’ was too loud and the pain too much. He had had times when he’d stooped really low. He’d had occasions when he tripped accidentally. The garbage bin and the gutter behind smelling of stale excrement of humans and machines coloured in bright shades of plastic drew him. It almost seemed fatalistic to him. He always felt destined to roll in shit like swine, but almost always and contrary to his bile (a friend described him as a borderline pessimist), he would always end up redeeming himself.
But the fire never died. It just got covered under wreaths of happy thoughts and rainbows that he chased, but the embers burnt deep in his heart and at times, when there was no one to talk to and no one to meet and he would get lonely in the marketplace, the traffic noise would fan the fires of gloom and there would start his vertigo of the soul. If he was lucky, someone would interrupt it in time. When they didn’t, though, he’d almost be ready to do the most wretched thing a man could do. Thankfully, he knew unhappiness can’t go away by wreaking it on innocent bystanders and never really did anything seriously stupid, except once. He paid for it for years. In some ways, he’s still paying.