A pocketful of the abyss
Beautiful weather outside-a cloudy variegated sky, already dimming towards an unseen sunset, the soft wind cooled by a light clean rain. I put on some rice to cook, and some ratatouille to reheat, and went to lean on the balcony and watch the weather-
Woo. Long way down, easily lethal. I do live on the eighth floor. Another storey up, and I could take a flamboyant swan-dive off the roof. A few seconds in the sickening clutch of free-fall, the fierce whoosh of wind, a fractured glimpse of the ground rushing up, then... not even blackness, not even an end to thought, but something more final still. It's hard for the animal consciousness to grasp the prospect of its own extinction.
Fortunately I don't want to go there. No more rain, no more Mischa, not even the chance to enjoy that ratatouille. Plus it wouldn't actually end my troubles: when akeela found out, he'd boot down the doors of Hell itself just to berate me for being so damn' stupid.
But still the memory of suicidality persists, like a heroin-addict's belt or a memento from the war. When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss doesn't just gaze back into you: it slips into you through your pupils and coils itself like a worm into the quiet corners of your soul. There you will carry it eternally, and from time to time it will awaken and whisper to you.
Callous people tend to think of sorrow as something that passes and is gone, but actually it stains us and reduces us. That's why it's important on every level, from our everyday encounters to the fabric of our society, to nurture and promote the generality of joy.
Woo. Long way down, easily lethal. I do live on the eighth floor. Another storey up, and I could take a flamboyant swan-dive off the roof. A few seconds in the sickening clutch of free-fall, the fierce whoosh of wind, a fractured glimpse of the ground rushing up, then... not even blackness, not even an end to thought, but something more final still. It's hard for the animal consciousness to grasp the prospect of its own extinction.
Fortunately I don't want to go there. No more rain, no more Mischa, not even the chance to enjoy that ratatouille. Plus it wouldn't actually end my troubles: when akeela found out, he'd boot down the doors of Hell itself just to berate me for being so damn' stupid.
But still the memory of suicidality persists, like a heroin-addict's belt or a memento from the war. When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss doesn't just gaze back into you: it slips into you through your pupils and coils itself like a worm into the quiet corners of your soul. There you will carry it eternally, and from time to time it will awaken and whisper to you.
Callous people tend to think of sorrow as something that passes and is gone, but actually it stains us and reduces us. That's why it's important on every level, from our everyday encounters to the fabric of our society, to nurture and promote the generality of joy.