My body is wrapped in velvet darkness, my ears the recipients of the wax and wane of white noise where the reality of being has ebbed almost completely. It is the hollow ebony of nothing that lights the clearest path from infamy; this was my only truth earlier today while I was staring at the pavement five stories below, bare toes squelched against the sandpaper rooftop of a vacant building.
It is the child's hand in the cookie jar. It is satisfaction. Satiate the hunger.
There was once vibrancy to things now mundane in a world which re-awakened in a prelude of adrenaline during the moments when I had stood at the precipice of that rooftop and the less conspicuous precipice of my humanity. The brick's chalky residue seemed to taint the air surrounding it; the same air which I had forced from my lungs as a lick of frigid wind lapped at my skin, triggering a shiver and the pique of my fascination.
It is spiraling down through the air. It is regret. The ride is over.
It is with hindsight that I will some day wonder at my infatuation with my perceptions in correspondence to the possibility of an external reality and what waits without the senses used to perceive such reality. Without this infatuation would my next actions still follow suit? What if I had been an average being, more concerned with mundane tabloid fodder than the very definition of the word ‘reality’? The thought makes me glad of my current predicament. The thought makes me glad that I’ve done as I’ve done.
It is the cat with his nose in the fan. It is curiosity. Insatiable.
My eyes never left the sepulchral gray sky foreshadowing my actions as I thought, toes balanced on the rugged edge of this reality’s end, that perhaps I might find more than just an end; perhaps I might wake to a new beginning. It was a fleeting thought as I stepped forth- a thought which stopped nearly as abruptly as the butterflies that battled my stomach all the way to the pavement into the tumult of darkness beyond.
It is the end.
It is the child's hand in the cookie jar. It is satisfaction. Satiate the hunger.
There was once vibrancy to things now mundane in a world which re-awakened in a prelude of adrenaline during the moments when I had stood at the precipice of that rooftop and the less conspicuous precipice of my humanity. The brick's chalky residue seemed to taint the air surrounding it; the same air which I had forced from my lungs as a lick of frigid wind lapped at my skin, triggering a shiver and the pique of my fascination.
It is spiraling down through the air. It is regret. The ride is over.
It is with hindsight that I will some day wonder at my infatuation with my perceptions in correspondence to the possibility of an external reality and what waits without the senses used to perceive such reality. Without this infatuation would my next actions still follow suit? What if I had been an average being, more concerned with mundane tabloid fodder than the very definition of the word ‘reality’? The thought makes me glad of my current predicament. The thought makes me glad that I’ve done as I’ve done.
It is the cat with his nose in the fan. It is curiosity. Insatiable.
My eyes never left the sepulchral gray sky foreshadowing my actions as I thought, toes balanced on the rugged edge of this reality’s end, that perhaps I might find more than just an end; perhaps I might wake to a new beginning. It was a fleeting thought as I stepped forth- a thought which stopped nearly as abruptly as the butterflies that battled my stomach all the way to the pavement into the tumult of darkness beyond.
It is the end.
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