The Real Problem is Gravity

The real problem is gravity. This primordial force of nature that oftentimes subtly, but sometimes violently and mercilessly, pulls our feet down to the ground where we belong. It would throw us savagely against the face of the earth, splattering our brains and guts all over the map. It would crush us the second we get ahead of ourselves and think we can really fly.

How stupid of us. How ridiculous! Just look at how we fill our heads with the most complicated of thoughts and our notebooks with the most elaborate of plans just to see real life break them into two simple shards: to live or to die. And of course, we always choose the first option, making things even more laughable. For the moment we choose to live, we die bit by bit. Who really lives? Is this life? Working from morning ’til night, typing thousands of insignificant letters on a screen, so someone can make millions off them while we waste hours, years, decades, eternities cheating ourselves? Listening to nifty bits of music in the train to dull the senses and hide our consciousness from the zombie of a world banging on our door, screaming, “Let me inside your head, so I can eat your brains, you yellow-bellied fucktard!”

Yeah, that’s about it. That’s about life. And then there’s the amusing fact that when one chooses to die, he miraculously finds the secret passage to real, radiant, thriving life. Ask the people who are ready to die anytime. Ask the rebels in the mountains who have something to live for. The scavenging souls in the streets who still find a genuine reason to smile. The terminally ill who can find spiritual meaning in a matchstick or a dead cockroach. What are their mornings like? I sincerely think they have something I don’t.

See I’ve tried to rise above it like every John and Mary in the room. Hoodwinked myself into believing I’m worth something priceless and intangible. Perhaps an element of immortal love, rushing above people’s heads in a gust of wind. Or an embodiment of hope–a furnace of phoenix fire eternally renewing itself. A lighthouse signaling ships where to go in the darkest, most directionless nights. I’ve tried to imagine myself as such to no avail.

When the time has come for the twinkling fairy dust to collect on the floor like regular dirt to be swept away, all I see is a man, sitting in a dreary desk in a square building, facing his computer screen for the upteenth time. An existence deprived of the time to love. Or to take his lunch. A bag of sickness and porn waiting to explode into something fleeting, filthy and futile.

It’s all because of gravity.

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