Preface

If you were to look at me for longer than the millisecond allotted to each face as it passes by, you would be inclined to form an opinion, wonder, maybe, why I’m here at this particular time, admire my sweater, perhaps. If you were to sit directly across from me and not be buried in work, your eyes would drift to my chubby cheeks, my legs crossed comfortably, back slouched, face peering into the screen, and assume I’m a university student working on an assignment, catching up on late work, possibly. If you were to delve deeper, you’d make some assumptions about my responsibilities, relationships or sleeping patterns (and, because of the black and purple rings surrounding my eyes, conclude I did not get any rest last night); nothing out of the ordinary would strike you about my appearance or the habits you’ve observed. If you were to notice me, the words fuck up would not stumble into your mind, for it’s far from conspicuous or obvious. And, just as surely, you wouldn’t take my approachability and easy going attitude as signs of failure. But, say you happened to recognize me from the philosophy class we have together twice a week at 8:30, and it had just ended, and you were walking to your next class -- you would know I had opted to spend my morning on my laptop instead. Say you were more attentive than that; say you saw my fingers straying from the keys, my eyes breaking contact with the screen, my head swiveling about: you could conclude that my energy was consumed by attempts to feign a persona. Now pretend you know me better than I know myself; pulling up my boots because they’ve slouched down becomes a sign of anxiousness and that it’s a nervous fidget is undoubtedly clear; the customary flinch followed by the sound of my knuckles cracking is absent and has instead matured into a serene demonstration of discomfort. You wouldn’t know anything about me because, after all, the secrets most valuable are the secrets best kept.

Part of the beauty of my failure is the way I can shape and mold my actions without consequence: the hole has been dug and, as soon as the edge becomes a source of intrigue, the free-fall is inevitable and entirely unstoppable. That edge forces you to crave, feel, live, be. Containing the fundamental elements for a junkie, it is the perfect release: intoxicating, stimulating, compelling, liberating. The first step is effortless and completely casual. The moments following immediately after are the ones you’ll search for endlessly, be devoted to unequivocally, yearn for unconditionally. Your last minutes of hesitation will come in the form of doubt, of branches catching hair, of branches winding around your shoelaces and grappling with your arms. The doubt will surround you with self-hate and self-pity and self-mourning and, worst of all, indecision. But the euphoria of the free-fall will have you absorbed so thoroughly that all else will be insignificant and senseless: uncertainty fails to reach those enthralled in destruction. 


ps. I'm moving on Saturday -- wish me luck :).