Icarus

He longs for sleep. At times, it feels like it is the only thing he can think of; as prominent on his mind as a glaring sun breaking through his eye lids in direct sunlight. Yet, the more he thinks of sleep, the farther the reach it takes to obtain it.

“Today, I will sleep” he promises himself, as he stares at himself in the mirror. And then one more splash of water to the face, one more promise, “I will sleep tonight.”

***

Leaving his apartment, he is overtaken by the worry of missing his bus. “Please, don’t let me watch it drive pass” he thinks to himself, becoming aware of how heavy his eyes are. “I should have left earlier…”

***

He reaches into his pocket for his lighter. “I deserve a cigarette,” he tries to convince himself, hoping it will ease the guilt he feels for not being a better person. A woman who’s hair needs to be combed smiles at him, kindly at the bus stop. Her eyes are as heavy as his. He quickly diverts his gaze away from her, pretending to be captivated by the pigeons fighting over a crumb, seemingly unaware of any human presence, aggressively looking back at him waiting for the bus as if to say, “give me more.”
“It’s better if I don’t say ‘Hi,’” he convinces himself—always convincing himself.

He finds his lighter in his pocket and pulls it out. He knows the cigarette will make him sick to his stomach and yet those 2 minutes of lightheadedness somehow seem worth it. For those two minutes the world will disappear, as the image on an etch-a-sketch slowly disappears with a gentle shake. “I deserve this.”

***

He pulls the cigarette to his lips and lights it, desperate for the nicotine, desperate for that gentle shake from whatever bored hand created him, when he notices the girl still staring at him, only closer. She’s moved closer to him. “Fuck.”

Very rarely is there ever anyone else at this bus stop, that’s why he picks it. He walks an extra two blocks in order to avoid idle chit-chat with strangers. He prefers to avoid the monotonous “Do you have the time?” or the ironic “Beautiful weather, huh?” in a storm. The fake smiles and the obligatory responses have become too taxing. “Maybe once I sleep.”

***

Finishing his cigarette, he immediately wishes he hadn’t smoked it. “I didn’t need that” he thinks, coughing up the taste of tar. He’s going to be annoyed by the lingering smell of his weak will. The smell of smoke stains his fingers and palate. He wants to crawl into his backpack and hide until he gets to work, riding on the back of this shape that people recognize as him. The pigeons have stopped fighting and are pecking at the cement robotically, in search of food that must be hidden from the naked eye. He finds it odd that these birds are content on the ground when they have wings. He stares at the birds daydreaming about how it must feel being able to fly off and away at any given moment. If he had wings, he’d fly away. He’d fly away just because he was able to, flying in any direction until he tired, until nothing was familiar. He’d fly until he fell from the sky like a drop of rain, and crashed down onto the concrete. “Stupid pigeons” he mutters aloud to himself, “stupid fuckin’ pigeons.”

***

The bus pulls up to the curb and he quickly climbs on, careful to avoid the girl’s eyes. He takes a seat in the back at a window, still able to see the pigeons and closes his eyes just for second. “Today, I will sleep” he repeats to himself. I will sleep.” And then he slowly drifts off, taking flight to the moon, a few moments of quiet, until the jerk of the bus stopping 2 blocks away to pick up strangers, wakes him.

“Stupid fuckin pigeons.”