I have never sought to die, out of sheer self-ridicule, impracticality or a measure of both. I’ve never wanted to live forever, but I wanted to be immortal. Of course, suicide in-concept is a resolution and those tempt like the Devil to the completionist — they break men that are solely oriented by solving problems — but that’s another conversation.
I’m not a quitter. The harshness of endurance makes me, grounds me, renders me true to form by embracing the challenges of circumstance and its visceral maladies. My favourite thing to say was “don’t worry about me”. Perhaps that was always the problem. I act like I am fine. It doesn’t matter that it’s true.
I have found at times, punishingly in sustained batches, no time to live, which feels like a death without the last hoorah. In stasis, unchecked and beyond the reach of my own sensible brand of reason, I fall listlessly to the whims of emotional disturbance; I am only here, making it to the next moment, waiting for the next phase of seeing nothing in front of me.
I am persistent enough to ask what am I doing it for, and thus I’ve found the answer, and I don’t like it. It smells like weakness, feels like a consolation, but the truth, the bitterness of it, makes no distinction between what makes you appear strong, and what puts you in full embrace of yourself. I never thought the strongest version of myself would be positioned to be as fragile as possible.
Nothing is enough, not this entire world and its surrounding universe; none of it is enough for me. Your improvement is banal, your concepts are derivative. I don’t care for mortgages or retirement plans. I am a vessel, an erratic privateer on a cosmic sea, enquiring into nebulae and distant worlds for signs of treasure. Dismally accepting the emptiness of it all, because I captain the faithful marauder alone.
Dylan Moran said to stay far away from your potential, because if you try to tap into it, it’s no longer potential. That bundle of what could be dissipates into cold light of day. You might not like what you find. You might realise that actually, the extent of what you could achieve isn’t as remarkable as the lofty heights you thought were possible.
Seneca said “we suffer more in imagination than reality”, but I don’t have the luxury of imagination, so I am encased in a bell jar, part peering out through the glass in hopeful wonder, part facing all of myself, reflecting back at me the entirety of my being. Betwixt the purpose of concentration and the freedom of expression, boundless with energy but unable to escape its confines.
I expect greatness of myself, but it is wrong that I should blame myself for having so far failed to murmur. I’ve been expecting to pole vault with iron chains on my feet, I’ve been locked away searching for the impetus in the wrong places, the intellectual, the strategic, the aesthetic. All barren, the desert of the real, for a man such as me.
We live in perilous times, but offered in the fragmented visage of what we funnel our perceptions through is the opportunity to do and be more. It stings at first, but to clean a wound poison must be extracted. So, here is my promise to myself, my promise to all of you. No more masquerading myself for the ball.
My heart continues to beat, but I can’t speed up the clock, I can’t race to the finish line. I have to trust in more than myself, in more than what I can understand and know as fact. This is a self-disintegration, this is a surrender, to being mediocre. I loathe the thought, I simply cannot avoid the face of truth. She is beautiful in how she exposes me for what I am, but until truth finds me, I can only look to the stars, motionless.