Juice Nothing Blog: The Insides Of Jared Woods On The Outside: Rant

Big Fat Commercial Writing Dump (part ii)

"And he said, 'Truly, I say to you, no prophet is acceptable in his hometown.'" - Luke 4:24

If you hold out the human race in your extended arms and look at it from this distance, it's interesting how many of life's decisions revolve around comfort. Certainly, you can ridicule the lazy man who uses his toe to change the television channel as a negative example of this pursuit, but "comfort" is not necessarily synonymous with "laziness" alone. In fact, those who work hard and strive for a better future are doing so for reasons of comfort, whether they realise it or not. More money, a nice place to call home, a job you excel at, a loving partner who cradles your crumbled body to sleep... all of these goals could easily be argued as pleasures based on comfort. For what is an uncomfortable pleasure anyway? Anal sex? I wouldn't know.

This observation seems less than simple when it comes to my own experiences. I've started to recognise personal comfort as somewhat of an enemy. When I'm comfortable in my life, that's when I begin to think, and if history has taught me anything, thought is not a safe environment for me to be in. Hey, remember that time I quit my job at the end of 2017? To become a full-time writer? Which I detailed in Big Fat Commercial Writing Dump (part i)? Totally abandoning my safety net and scrubbing my work history clean? That was a period of pure terror, man! I was barely scraping rent money together and there was no CV boat coming to my rescue and my girlfriend has just left me! And yet, when I look back on these events, there are heart shapes in my pupils. I was in full survival mode. I had to eat bugs and build a shelter out of empty baked bean tins. I was forced to see what I was made of, and as it turns out, I am made of fear. Fear of failure. It's a substance of much buoyancy.

After a while, I found a place to stand, my head was above water, the money began to collect beneath my feet, and following shortly afterward, I was standing in the sun, arms stretched upward, drying out. So nice and warm! But if this was indeed the goal, then why was I so confused? The UV light was cripsing my eyelids and then microwaving my mental health. The Beatles song Here, There and Everywhere became the theme to my general stability. I had manifested a big blob of clay and then modeled it into the perfect shape, one which I had always dreamed I would one day model, but my inside world refused to collaborate. Despite taking complete control of my life (as far as any third-party could see), I was still the same old bleak ghost within, a monotone moan of misery like a warped vinyl with lock groove. There goes that self-help book idea I had FUCK.

And it was around this point when I started to ask questions.
The real questions, such as, "Why am I here?".
And I don't mean, like, in some existential fashion.
I mean more like, "Why am I here?? Why am I in London?".

I don’t have a job which requires anything but wifi.
I don’t have a girlfriend, gross lol.
I don’t have a baby as fas as I know.
I don’t have a mortgage.
I don’t have any debt.
I don’t even have a fucking Oyster card.
And I'm pretty sure all of my friends hate me anyway.

Couple this with the Brexit Monster looming above our dark skies, salivating to take a bite out of my long-earned passport, and the illuminated arrows were clear. I see you.

It's also worth mentioning that 08/08/18 marked my 10th year anniversary in London to the day, and 10 is my lucky number, so... Omen? Omg? Oh, man! Amen.

And with that, I decided it was time. It was time to try and outrun my depression once for all. So let's go. Go where? Nobody’s business. But I assure you it’s not one place. It’s gonna be many, many places. And I will not rest until I find a reason to live, or at least a pretty place to die.

What's important to note above all else is that I love London, you hear me? I LOVE IT. Never has any region in the whole wide world wide web felt so much like a home to me, and I only got here when I was 23 years old, so that's saying a lot. When I picture London as a personified figure, my heart yelps legit physical pain in regards to my decision. It feels like I'm cheating on the love of my life. But then I have to remind myself that London is not a person, it's a city. She'll be here when I need her, and I'll probably need her next summer. In the meantime, I've got to take this chance while I have it, because who knows when I'll get such an opportunity again? All it takes is one pregnancy or a bad Brexit deal to fuck everything up.

That said, maybe I'll come back running after one long month of panic attacks. And if that's the case, I ask you to please forget everything I just said. Thanks!

This lengthy speech is slightly premature, as I will only be leaving in December due to a pesky little lease I signed my name on a while ago. But I wanted to make this announcement now to address the future of Juice Nothing with time to spare. Regrettably, I imagine this blog's content is going to be reduced substantially over the course of 2019. I imagine this because I've never tried writing on the road before, and if anything is going to get throttled, it would be the shit that doesn't pay me. Furthermore, I am currently in the process of authoring three books, and I really need to dedicate some more resources to that. Because I'm not a kid anymore and a blog is not a particularly good use of energy. That said, maybe we could try a new piece every two months instead of one? Or maybe I'll be really bored and lonely, and I'll end up writing much more? Or perhaps I'll compose a world-famous guide called "How I Travelled to 10 Different Countries in Six Months and Saved Money" because that's my actual plan.

Ok, so exciting times ahead then! To close things off, I'd like to spit out a list of all the many many writing bits I have sprinkled throughout the web since we last spoke in March. Look, you see? I've been a busy boi. Here is the Jared fix you never asked for. I hope you're well though.

On the 28th of June 2018, I was in the presence of a train jumper. I had just arrived at the Bow Road Westbound platform and casually strolled to the far end where there were less people to cramp my superior style. The train was pulling into the station, and then with its nose protruding only few meters out of the tunnel, it abruptly stopped. I thought nothing of it. We’ve all seen this type of thing happen before. I have enough interesting thoughts to entertain me in the meantime.

Pretty soon, however, the atmosphere began to change. It wasn’t one of blind panic or terrified screams, which I guess is what I would have expected. Instead, it was a quiet hum of concern, people cautiously approaching the train, exchanging wide-eyed glances, some of them covering their mouths. In hindsight, this was the eeriest part of my whole story. The train driver got out of his special compartment and spent a few minutes apprehensively peering beneath the vehicle. It was in that moment that I first thought, “Oh my, is this a suicide scene?” but I also thought, “Perhaps the train just broke,” and I also thought, “There is a bomb here and we are all about to die”. Is it wrong to admit that I felt a glimmer of excitement?

Following shortly after was the announcement that we all had to evacuate the station immediately. The small crowd made their way to the exit and I stretched my lobes out, hoping to catch some juicy information from the passersby. I heard a lady talking about blood. Someone else mentioned they could see a hand beneath the wheels. Ok, so suicide confirmed then. I tapped out at the barrier, and shamefully my brain mumbled to me, “I bet they are still going to charge us for that”.

Leaving the station and walking the journey to the next one, I did feel a bit spooked. But more than that, I was acutely aware that I'd just experienced something I had never experienced before. It blew my mind that a man (or perhaps a woman? I don’t know) who I may have even made eye contact with, had just snuffed their existence away. By choice. There was an energy which powered a human body in that station, and then it wasn't there anymore, set free not far from where I stood. I did not know how I was supposed to feel about that, so instead, I just took the most logical next step I could think of and promptly updated my Facebook status, informing the world that my brain had been through something new.

90% of my friends responded by asking me if I was ok. This amused and confused me. Of course I was ok! I didn’t jump in front of a train, did I? If anything, whatever problems I may have been going through at that time, were swiftly slapped into place, sit the fuck down. All things considered, I was fantastic, really. The thought of jumping in front of a train hadn’t even crossed my mind that day, and yet there was this poor evaporated soul, so tortured that he had committed his afternoon schedule entirely to getting rid of himself. How ridiculous would it be for me to not be ok? What's more, I got drunk not long after this, and then I was really ok.

The next day when I awoke, I felt different. One part of this was certainly the hangover. Another part was the realisation that a life had been flattened by a giant machine, spread across the tracks like butter. But there was yet another part which was far worse than all of this. It was the inevitable British trademark where individuals felt the need to express their opinion to me that any train jumper was a selfish person, and that this is where our primary focus should lie.

There would be an element of hypocrisy in my words if I pretended to not understand this stance. Reportedly, around 100–150 suicides take place on the London Underground network every year. As a Londoner, it becomes a part of your life. “Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentleman, but there’s been a person on the track". Oh God, not now! I’m running late as it is! And here I am stuck on this packed carriage with my nose in somebody’s armpit, plus a baby is crying. I’m uncomfortable and this is very inconvenient for me. How am I expected to rise towards some moral podium while I'm stewing in an emotional pit of frustration? It seems like a bit much to ask, really.

In times like these, it is simpler to label this victim as a “selfish” person, not only because they may have potentially interrupted thousands of people’s day, but also because there are witnesses we need to consider too. People who have now seen something which will remain tattooed on their mind for the rest of their days. And then there's the driver who was accidentally responsible for a final breath, now carrying that demon on the back of their conscience until they pass themselves. Hell, I didn’t even see the incident take place, and I am still shook by it.

However, in my heart, I knew this was the wrong way to look at it, and now more than ever, I feel an absolute disgust by such a nonchalant disregard. Here is a human who was so lost within our world that they truly felt the need to end it all. It's a turmoil so complex that you can’t simply write it off with one meager word. And then if you take this tragedy and turn it around, focusing on the ordeal until it becomes about you, whining over how the death of a person slowed your day down, then I struggle to see how the “selfish” brand doesn’t fit your size perfectly. This is the epitome of a self-centered attitude, is it not?

Said misdirected “selfish” argument, of course, is not one against suicidal people. I doubt anyone who utters the word does so from a hostile position, intentionally undermining the agony which surrounds such a terrible event. Rather, it is an animosity towards this individual's chosen method of self-destruction. With so many wonderful suicide options available, why would someone select this specific angle? Why don’t they perform the act quietly at home, by hanging themselves, overdosing on pills, slitting their wrists, or dropping a toaster into the bathtub? At least this way, these disturbed characters get their happy little death wish, while we can arrive at wherever we’re going on time, none the wiser. Why do this to us? Why do it this way?

I know why. You see, I used to have this friend named Amy. About 10 years ago, she jumped in front of a train, and she killed herself. Perhaps it's because I can put a face to the episode, but it did help me to understand the plan from a unique perspective. People who jump in front of a train are not pussies. These are men and women who are wholeheartedly dedicated to their cause. They don’t want to live, they don’t want to fuck around, they don’t want a chance to change their mind. It’s a one-step maneuver which requires minimal preparation, all for the price of a one-way train ticket. You can make this decision and you can carry out the action within a very short timeframe. The complete process from point A to B doesn’t even have to be premeditated, you can hand in your notice and leave the building in less than a second. The thought of whether you make someone late for work was probably not your underlying concern here. Your concern was that you wanted to die, and this little procedure should get the job done nicely.

It’s the insensitivity towards these people that bothers me. If your friend is perpetually haunted by the compulsion to jump in front of a train, and yet you stigmatize the operation as one of “selfishness”, then they are not going to ask you for help. If you call yourself the victim when there are families left behind to pick up the pieces, then you have truly lost the connection to your fellow species. And if you pretend to understand what was going through a person’s mind before they dive face-first into the steel wheels of a moving train without having done it yourself, then perhaps you should take a moment to ask yourself how many people know what is going on in your life right now.

I was going to end this piece by telling you how I've been feeling since I witnessed this incident. But as I emphasised before, how selfish would that be of me?

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