When people ask me what I do best, I tell them: designing my own coffin.
It's either met with:
1) a reaction of disbelief or scepticism, or both, as such a hobby isn't commonplace; but all the same, curiosity—whether indifferent or earnest—compels them to want to see the coffins I fashion; except that, there are no coffins to be seen at all..
The ones who see past the metaphor, just like the first person, also:
2) pause to process the information, but slowly jerk their heads back and stare at me, as if, the moment the words leave my mouth, a swirl of dark smoke exudes around my person, an ominous smoke they do not want near their spaces, lest their light be sullied by whatever horrid contagion I carry, and their livelihoods be infected.
A third reaction, by far the most insufferable of all, is those who:
3) give me a look of sympathy, as if I am depressed and in dire need of help, or suicidal.
Universe, you're well aware that even when I do think about death often, by no means am I suicidal.
However, I am writing this because I am, yet again, designing my own coffin.
What is freedom when I would rather chase my own doom? What is happiness when I constantly create my own destruction?
In shame, I confess.. that I have officially become the man I once regarded with deepest contempt.
My father.