Gosh, that David Foster Wallace guy has really got me on some deep stuff.
No more cynicism for me, no sirree. More positivity. More morality. It’s not wrong to be cynical, but there’s always going to be a light at the end of the tunnel. There’s always good in people – you just have to bother to find it. I’ve bothered with so many pointless things already – what’s the harm in one more thing?
I’m going through life, I’m fussing over some shit that I’ll have to “deal with eventually,” and I worry so much about actually doing it that I don’t even start. I’ve started before. I “started” last week. It just didn’t last until now. I’m stuck, aren’t I?
It’s like I’ve lost some glimmer in my eyes. I’ve lost my shine. I’ve lost my drive.
But there’s time. I know there’s time, because I’m spending it right now. I’m using all of it as we speak, and I’m using it in the most effective way I know possible: to get my thoughts down to a visible medium.
Someday, I’ll come back to this. Someday, after I’ve accomplished all my things, fulfilled all my passions, dealt with my fanciful daydreams, and resolved my romantic subplots – I’ll come back to this. I’ll look back, and I’ll see the tower that I’ve built for myself. I’m going to stand from the peak, and I’ll smile. I’ve done all that I wanted. I’ve reached the summit of Everest. I’ve become my own hero. I am finished.
Then I’ll jump down. I’ll feel the breeze caress my cheeks, and I’ll tip forward, leaning; staring into the unseen abyss below. My center of gravity moves, and I fall over the edge. Wind blasts past my ears, and my organs compress.
You know that feeling you get on a hill or a roller coaster? The butterflies?
Like that, but constant. A drawn-out, sinking feeling. My eyes start watering. The tears freeze up. I scream out my own name. “teamleaderleo,” I shout. The sound rings through my ears. Resonates. The wind rushes past me some more.
I spread my arms and legs out. I’m falling even faster, but I can feel myself lift up.
Snow. Ice. My cheeks are numb. I’m smiling, and my throat is cracked and dry. My face feels like a pincushion, riddled with needles. But I still smile. I look down, and the ground comes at me, closer and closer. The descent didn’t seem so frightening from above. But it’s not about the fright anymore. It’s about leaving it behind.
What the fuck does that mean?
Nothing. It’s an exercise in futility, another pointless self-indulgent piece that I’ll forget about. It’s something to ruminate over for a few minutes in the shower, but nothing outstanding. It’s an honest approach to writing. My writing.
Almost unedited. Enough to not have a “teh” somewhere in the middle of a paragraph.
It’s nice to do this. Cathartic. That’s the word. Just like those wholesome memes. Makes me feel pretty warm when I start to buy into their bullshit.
Hey, better to buy into the happy, at least. You don’t need to be a contrarian. Everyone knows that you can make your own decisions.