In 48 frames from a movie on the cutting room floor,
you said, "True meaning would be dying with you",
and though I wanted to, I did not smile.
But now I will give up on this wall that I have fought with,
never uncover meaning behind our rich words.

-The Weakerthans

-----------------------------------------

When I regain consciousness, I am on some type of bed.

Next to me, Roger is singing. The song is unclear.

All that matters is that he's singing, which means he's breathing, and he's awake, and he's alive.

I open my eyes.

We're still at the hospital.

I'm on one of those retractable stretcher beds, and Roger is in his hospital gown, IV taped to his hand, oxygen tube up his nose, sitting upright in the hospital bed.

He stops singing.

Without looking at him, I can tell he's looking this way.

"…Roger, why am I on this thing?"

"You fainted in the hallway."

"Oh yeah… Why are you singing?"

"To entertain myself. Why did you faint?"

"…I got scared. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Why'd you get scared?"

"Because we're in an A.I.D.S. ward..."

"Dumb answer. I'm not scared."

"I didn't expect you to be... I hate this place."

"I hate it too. But I'm alive."

"Well thank God."

"…Did you faint because you thought I was dead?"

"No. I knew you weren't dead."

"Then why?"

"Because I saw another patient who was about to die."

"Oh… How… how did you know?"

"I don't know… But I don't think I would've fainted otherwise."

He nodded.

At length he asked, "…Are you sure you're okay Mark?"

I restrained myself from snapping at him. I turned to face him, crossing my legs.

"Do you want the truth?"

"No. I'm asking you for my health."

"What do you think?"

"I think no."

"What do you think, exactly?"

"I don't know. But if you were really okay I don't think you would've fainted."

"Ah, clever."

"I know I am. Mark, look at me. Is it me you're worried about?"

I hesitate to ponder a response. I come up short.

Roger repeats his question.

My stomach drops…but in a different, sorrowful way this time.

It feels like the old Mark.

Roger's best friend.

I take hold of the guardrail on his bed and say, in all sincerity, "Roger- …if I could, I would trade my life for yours."

A brief hint of fear flashes across Roger's face, but he says nothing.

Then he smiles.

"I don't know how…you want me to respond to that, but Mark? I would do the same for you. I hope you know that. I...really don't know how else to respond to that... But please. Don't worry about me, okay? No one needs to trade their life for anyone else's. It's just lately that I've been… There's enough worry…" He trails off. "I'm going to be okay."

"Roger, I don't want to… Oh God. I can't lose you! I don't want to even have to see you like this-" I wave my hand at his pathetic figure. Then I bite my tongue to stop myself from crying. From rambling. He doesn't need to hear it. I don't want to hear myself.

I wring my hands in my lap. Roger clears his throat.

"M-…Mark? What were those pills-…?" He trails off again.

I knew this was coming. Eventually.

I take the easy way out.

"…What pills?"

My heart aches. I hate using Roger's vulnerability to manipulate him. I know he feels too needy, too…'pressured' to argue with me right now. He looks disappointed, but looks at his bed sheets and says nothing more. He knows to leave me alone about it.

--

I return home.

I return home and sit in the dark.

Alone.

I get up.

I turn on a light.

I pace.

What was the meaning of any of this?

Not even Roger could respond to that.

But being alone in this loft just wouldn't suffice.

It was one thing to be alone- I've had my share of solitude. Whether it be abandonment, by choice, by being forgotten, or overlooked, or ignored… - the majority of my life was just me myself and I. I was alone even when I was with people- girlfriends, family, coworkers…but only because I preferred to keep to myself. It was interwoven in my genetics- an intimate curse- to be isolated. I kept my feelings bottled up. Although my temper was short, it had its boundaries, and although I had many an opinion to express, rarely did I allow others to have revelations. It's not that I'm shy or quiet, but I simply like to watch others, the camera just being a redundant display of my introversion.

I never could decide if I preferred large groups or just a few close friends. Both had their upsides, but for me, the glass was usually half empty. Large settings offered an abundance of character studies, where I could just depose myself from the crowd and film- but more importantly- watch the human interactions, because rarely did I ever actually participate. Just being immersed in other people's folly, joy, conversation… caused me to feel both despotic and detached. Roger once told me I craved the lives of other people- that if I didn't have anyone to focus on I wouldn't know what to do with my own life. For the longest time I resented that, and I doubted that was the case- I could… survive without other people to scrutinize… but now, now that all my friends had moved away or had forgotten me or… passed away… there was no one. There really was no one. With launches me into my second partiality of film subjects- my friends.

They're ten times more worthy of my observation- not to sound elite- but it was because they were the root of my emotions. They're my friends, for God sakes, not some random people on the street! Replaying a kiss between Angel and Collins had so much more connotation and… magic in it than between some couple I'd filmed at some party and never saw again… I thrived on these makeshift experiences- my little journeys inside someone else's feelings.

However, I didn't feel like a parasite, depending on social study, but just... a fly on the wall. It really perturbed me that my whole pathetic existence went in circles: I observed others so not to be alone, but in my observations I was overlooked, and therefore I disengaged in order to continue watching without the swindle of rejection.

Upon further thought, that left me without a place in the world.

If no one really wanted me around to film them, and the only person benefiting from the films was myself… well what the fuck? Kick the perennial habit, that's what!

April and Mimi and Angel died, Collins moved away, Maureen and Joanne pretend to care, but technically don't exist to me, Benny is a figure of speech, my family somewhat disowns me, and Roger… well, I'll get to him later… but with no one to film and the realization that my filming was subjecting me to ruin and suspending the ghosts of my past, that left me no choice but to stop with the camera.

For a while, it was a relief, not feeling obligated to watch other people. Then it grew annoying- I missed the feel of the thing in front of my face… I felt naked and compulsive, always missing good shots, and then I grew out of that with the gorgeous notion of, "Oh fuck it." So for weeks on end the camera sat on the table in my room, dormant and unventilated, and like its master- overlooked. But the vicious circle drew me back in, and I found I couldn't not film. It was something I had to uphold, and I'd brushed it off like it was some placid hobby. I cannot recall an origin for my love of filmmaking, but it had everything to do with my piquant need to watch others… and that existed since I'd left the womb.

Without my camera at my side I also noticed my total lack of an imagination. I was so fucking candid and literal, all the time. Which, I found, had previously contributed to my occasional naivety and gullibility. For instance, when I was dating Maureen, I so fervently insisted she be honest with me about everything that I totally disregarded the fact that she could be lying to me. Sure enough, I took her vows of fidelity to heart, completely missing the signs that she's cheated on me with various other men, and eventually, Joanne.

I took things as they came and saw things for what they were, which is exactly why Roger can claim the title of my best friend. Even though Roger is the most complex and secretive person I know… well, that's all I need to know! –That he's complex and secretive, and all he needs to know is that I'm caring and logical, and when the time came for him to unveil himself and his problems, I was there to listen and to understand.

So therefore, with Roger and without the camera I had a newfound purpose in this world- to be there for him. To listen and to understand, and sometimes, even to understand for the both of us, because Roger was so multifarious he had trouble getting his head around his own state of mind. If I couldn't be a fly on the wall I'd settle for a plainspoken best friend. A.I.D.S. and rocky past aside, Roger was my companion, the best and most loyal I'd ever had. Our goodwill was unfathomable- all we'd seen and had been through and philosophized about. Sure, we fought more than anyone I knew, but that only strengthened our bond and assured us of our numerous, yet compatible differences.

I could exist to accent Roger. Sometimes he overlooked me too, but in only three major instances. The first? Falling in love with April. The second? Falling in love with heroin. And the third? Falling in love with Mimi. All of which were perfectly understandable and in no way was I going to demand to be noticed. Why should I?

When I was not fighting with Roger or being ignored by him, I was devoting my life to help him survive- aka withdrawal and disease- a bit more horrifying than falling in love. All my other friends had gracefully liberated themselves from my emotional field, from Benny moving away to Maureen bluntly dumping me- so coping with their loss was an achievable goal. But Roger- oh God- so many times had he come inches from death, and I'd been there to witness him slip away, so many times had I thought he'd been gone forever, only to have him take another breath, and again and again and again I'd realize really how much he meant to me, only to have him almost die again.

And again.

And again.

I could not take this gamble any longer.

Films did not help me cope. Camera-less observation did nothing for my mental health. Confiding in my shifty friends only scrambled my insides, and trying to reflect on and analyze my past only put me through hell:

I dropped out of college to come to New York to be 'an artist', but mainly to help Roger through his vicious heroin addiction. My parents… excommunicated me from the household for a while, in disbelief and shame of my cancellation of my last two years at Brown. Benny, my dorm mate and runner up as best friend, made it big in the real estate world, buying Roger's apartment to aid us with the rent. Roger… fell in love and… ignored me, only to have April end her life. I witnessed that aftermath. Roger contacted A.I.D.S. and his condition steadily fluctuated. Roger decided to withdraw. I helped. I held onto his life. My girlfriend of a year and a half deprived me of both love and a job. Benny turned on us and stopped the Good Samaritan act, right when Roger and I were both out of work. We struggled with the rent. With basic necessities. With life. We managed to keep from drowning only after finding hope again briefly in the form of Angel and Mimi and for me, a high-paying job that allowed me to do what I loved. But Roger slipped under and moved away to find himself, only to return to lose his inspiration and to be engulfed by the enigma his future (and survival) presented. I quit my job, only because I couldn't figure out who the fuck I was or what I wanted to do with myself, and then Mimi died and wouldn't you know it, Roger needed me again. The only opulence in my life.

Collins couldn't take all the sadness, so he hiked it out of the state to teach his auspicious bullshit to young anarchists everywhere, so maybe they'll be inspired by his opportunism and continue the tradition of only showing up when it was convenient.

Joanne and Maureen frolicked off together like a couple on an eternal honeymoon, vowing never to fight again because look where that got them…leaving me and Roger to die alone.

I'd been through enough.

More importantly I'd had enough of being the savior. The good guy. The witness. The fucking fly on the wall. It even might've been better if someone finally noticed me and squished, but no. That never happened. So I thought of squishing- killing- myself, just to see who'd notice, but I think the only thing that stopped me from doing that was April. Call me an asshole, but it'd been done already. I was a fly, not a copycat. We didn't need any more tragedy. Excuse me- Roger didn't need any more tragedy. He needed me. And that's why I'm still here. Because I love Roger with all my heart and he is my best friend and I'm meant to be there for all the ups and downs and unstinting brushes with death. And to serve a purpose. Three fucking cheers for a purpose. But I wasn't going to grin and bear it, that's for damn sure.

Actually, I wasn't going to grin. Just like my camera, I'd seen too much. I was bitter and unwilling to cope with any more of life's hurdles. Godamnit, I was sad. I believe the folks at Empire State Pharmacy call it 'clinical depression.'

They have a cure for that. It's called Prozac.

But the folks at Empire State Pharmacy call it flouxetine hydrochloride.

I thought I wouldn't need it.

I didn't need it! For the longest time, all those years of letdown after letdown, I just kept on keeping on. First, the camera was the remedy, and then life was the remedy, then Roger's life. All the things that were non-artificial and empowering. But this time there was the possibility that Roger really might die.

I can't even grasp that. And he wonders why I faint…

Roger, gone? What reason would I have to exist then? How would I even mourn? That mad me sadder- more 'clinically depressed' than a thousand lifetimes. Fuck non-artificial empowerment. I needed fucking drugs.

And this is why I was a failure.

Never before would I dapple with reality. With my own instincts and innards. My brain may be slightly demented and full of regret, but no way was I going to pop two little pills to control how I thought. That's like sticking a garden hose inside the camera and expecting it to project. I didn't want watered down thoughts! I wanted real, courtesy of Mark Cohen logistics, assiduous integrity, heart-wrenching philosophies and a bohemian conception.

But Oh God- I was just so… pathetic! I could not handle it anymore. So I took two little blue happy pills and this is where I wound up.

'Drug' is an overestimation, and 'medication' is an understatement. And 'happy pills' is just incorrect.

'Ambivalent pills' is much more accurate. Like I said, Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde.

To hell with disortion! It was like sticking a garden hose inside the camera and turning it on full blast.

The old Mark was projected, sometimes, in little bits and pieces. Remnants.

And happiness leaked through occasionally. There was, as promised, a balance and management to the depression.

But the blast of the hose- the majority of the emotion was the Mark Cohen that got fucked over. All my anger and resentment and regret and some emotions I never knew I held inside of me- like selfishness- came pouring out and conquered.

Sometimes I downright loved it- being able to stop caring and not having persistent worry at the back of my mind. But mostly it was scary, losing sight of myself, and, when the effects of the drug wore off- returning only to the Mark Cohen devoid of hope.

Circles, circles, circles.

I couldn't film, I couldn't not film. I couldn't live, I couldn't die. I couldn't cope, I couldn't take the Prozac, and I couldn't function without it.

And now, another fucking dilemma- being trapped in this loft, alone, to reflect on it all, with Roger, at the hospital, dying.

…Living?

…Simply tackling another day?

I find myself pacing again. An accomplishment?

No.

Just a circle.

Always, endless circles.