Funny guy, this so called John Doe. If he could find himself half a brain, he could even be average. Too bad that brains don't grow on trees, and his mind doesn't really have the room to accommodate one at the moment. It's just too busy getting filled with day to day crap and cynical nonsense to be forgotten after two seconds and then rethought half an hour after. It's a vicious circle actually. But then, it seems to me, the writer, that lately everything about this John is just another vicious circle, another bad joke, like when you make your dog chase his own tail for twenty minutes until he falls asleep.
Except John never falls asleep. He just falls deeper inside his mind, and sooner or later I'm afraid he won't be able to pull himself back from it. And that shall be the end for him, but not the ending he craves for, so for now he just does his best to throw out a lifeboat every once in a while. But let's get to the point, I wonder if there is any left, or if there ever was from the beginning. One thing we have established by now, one thing that defines him, is his idealism. An idealism that sometimes even goes as far as to rhyme with stupidity. And that's what's making him die. He sees the best in the small things and the worst in all the things, and that might just make him the saddest man on the planet. And if it doesn't, then the fact that he doesn't care about them, not even in the slightest, surely does.
So, whatever, John is a dreamer, and he doesn't care. Why should he, in the end? Except that he should. He apparently is a dreamer without his dream, and that's just bad. He lost his one big thing, his one true thing, his last hope of escape. He lost the will to die. Or better said, the craving. Ha still wants it, with all his heart even, but it seems as if his heart is no more. He feels like he can't keep going on this way, hoping for the one, the one big and true love, that will finally put him to peace and then sweep him out of his grave with new and renewed forces.
Unfortunately, it seems that lately not even hope can keep John going. So he just takes things as they are, and prays in secret. Sometimes, he wishes it would be different, he wishes that all of his demons would somehow become real and take him down, or bring him up. He says he doesn't care, and he is mostly right, but he says it so often that it sometimes become a lie, only because it's already a reflex. He wishes that, for example, he could 'make out' with a girl, just any girl. But that's impossible and he resents the expression with all his being. Like the little fucking dreamer he is, John is unable to go for a girl without any feelings, and that's tearing him up. And it's bringing him peace, at the same time. For a second, a minute, a fraction, John Doe dies a little every time he sees a girl. He falls in love with every instance, with every moment, with every kiss. He falls for a glimpse, for a taste, a touch, even the trace of perfume, a perfume that would normally go unnoticed. Like I said before, it's the little things. But it's only for a second, the time it takes the air to get in the lungs, the eyes to blink with a vague impression of a nervous twitch, an instant in which two lips fall apart, two glances cross each other, two awkward smiles meet in perfect courtesy. And a love story is written in that second, and trapped forever like on a piece of paper, and then the world goes back to its pace, and the second is lost between countless other excruciating seconds, and then the paper burns down, and John Doe comes back to life. And then for hundreds of thousands of seconds, he goes back to surviving, he throws out another lifeboat, and desperately tries to remember what it was like to be dead. What it was like to be free.