Vertigo
"Vertigo is not the fear of falling. It is the fear that you will be unable to overcome the urge to hurl yourself into the void." -Milan Kundera
Right now, I am in an apartment in Brasilia, on the fifth floor. The windows are enormous. A person could easily be pushed out and have their face plastered all over the street.
Catherine, my aunt, opens these windows wide, to bring some fresh air into the apartment and my mother follows her, closing each window, afraid someone might fall. Catherine looks at my mother and says "You Americans just don't understand that our deaths are programmed." That puts me in a weird sort of mood. The word 'programmed' rings in my ear. Programmed. I look out the window, at the beautiful greenery of Brasilia surrounding the white apartments stained with the red soil. This is it. This is all there is.
Later that day, a dinner guest hops over the window onto the one meter ledge that separates him from his death. I walk out of the room. I can't stand it. I keep asking myself if I will ever be able to just let go. To just die. I think I find comfort in the fact that I have no choice.
I don't know when these dreary thoughts will stop sucking the life out of me like a parasite.
Right now, I am in an apartment in Brasilia, on the fifth floor. The windows are enormous. A person could easily be pushed out and have their face plastered all over the street.
Catherine, my aunt, opens these windows wide, to bring some fresh air into the apartment and my mother follows her, closing each window, afraid someone might fall. Catherine looks at my mother and says "You Americans just don't understand that our deaths are programmed." That puts me in a weird sort of mood. The word 'programmed' rings in my ear. Programmed. I look out the window, at the beautiful greenery of Brasilia surrounding the white apartments stained with the red soil. This is it. This is all there is.
Later that day, a dinner guest hops over the window onto the one meter ledge that separates him from his death. I walk out of the room. I can't stand it. I keep asking myself if I will ever be able to just let go. To just die. I think I find comfort in the fact that I have no choice.
I don't know when these dreary thoughts will stop sucking the life out of me like a parasite.