You try, you pretend, you decorate the newness with sparkly things. But you never truly get over the choices that led you to those fixtures. You postulate as a new manifesto, a billboard for Bob Marley’s “Every little thing is going to be alright” while scrambling to make it through another day intact. As a human. A socially acceptable human. You read post after post succumbing to the pressures of good-heartedness while secretly disdaining the very existence of self-professed calls for love. You smile, you nod, you postulate a little more. But where did all of reality go, you wonder. You ponder. You smoke until oblivion in the night’s shadows. To hide, to pass by the hours that tick mercilessly at your doorstep. The persistent knocking that keeps you awake at night while you wrestle the demons of the morning’s funhouse. The trickery, the mockery. The fake calming music promising dreams that will go unanswered because that’s the joke of it all: it’s gone. Flat as a nail head. Destructive as a gapping ledge. You are its captive and you have no way to get off the ride that has become your detour. So you think and think, and think a little more. How do I get off this ride? The jump below makes true to its promise of breaking you into a million jagged pieces of yesterday’s sorrows. Could it be worse, you wonder? Being stuck at the top is your absolute fear. You count the seconds until your decision is required. If you jump, you’re dead. If you stay, you’re dead. Where are your wings when you relish their sweetness the most? Where are the surprises of the nights spent atop the roofs looking for answers and planning merry trips into the place of no return? Where are the promises spoken in niceties to keep you forevermore in the preservation of sanity draped in soft silk? Washed away in hot waves of negligence. You rise to the top. Stay, or jump. You ask. You decide. You fly.
Photo compliments of my own talent.