Children‘s Day used to be the best thing about November until I grew up and enrolled in National Novel Writing Month. Then, I got dumped by all my half, quarter and one-tenth girlfriends and November became all about #noShaving. I believed unkempt moors on the face displayed your heartbreak in the most illustrative manner, and so I decided to go for the full monty. By half of the November, my moustaches were flopping in my mouth and my mother had stopped seeing my face. I honestly had Jordan’s melancholic, handsome look in my mind at the start of the month – the wild praire bushes on the lower face, the smouldering agony in the eyes, the stiff, blank expression of loss. I had even started composing sad poems.
But my facial hair never turned out like my expectations. By the third Friday, I appeared like the bipedal goat they show in animated movies. I looked wise, but no woman could ever fantasize me.
It’s all about the emotions, I told myself. I made a playlist of all the soup songs and began reading Revolution 2020 again. Didn’t work out.
Then, a couple of years ago, one day in November, I attempted suicide. I had a blunt knife in my hand. My roommate wasn’t around. And no one else in the lodge was. It was a lonely evening and I had no data pack. All channels were playing sad songs. I had nobody to talk to. The wounds in my heart are always evergreen and ready to explode. I just need a catalyst. The heartwrenching silence and the depressing yellow of the sinking sun that seeped in through the ventilatory window were enough. I had seen and observed how people slashed wrists. My friend, then, was a pro in this job; his wrists were always covered with horrible scars.
I pressed the edge of the knife against my wrist. It didn’t cut, it didn’t feel like steel. I needed something sharper. I thought about buying a blade, but the thought didn’t get down my throat. I shit when the doctor takes out that bloody injection. And it wasn’t as if I was really planning to die. I thought it’d look cool. Or maybe I thought it’d help me in some way. Or maybe I thought every scar tells you a story, and mine would tell one too.
In the end, I did get those beautiful marks with my Writometer. I scribbled letters and kept scribbling over and over and over. Blood didn’t pour out but the skin was red and embossed. It looked pretty fucked up. I stopped when it started to hurt.
Novembers had never been special for me. As far as Doctor and I are concerned, Novembers have been the breaks in our story. Last year too, we had a fight and we didn’t talk for a few months. Then, the year before that, the same story. The years before that, and as far as I can remember.
And hey, this year too.
I like the weather though, it carries a hint of melancholy.
This is the intermediary month. The path that leads to fairy, snow white December. And Decembers are good.