I wrote this as a private journal entry. I wasn’t intending to publish it anywhere. But all you should know is that I felt humiliated enough by the thought of posting this that it seemed the right thing to do. Nevertheless, here’s the one I hope you skip–
The wind feels stronger when you’re perched atop a tall building. This view costs you and your hair a whole lot more adjusting—no matter how much there is or isn’t left of both.
Thankfully, I’m finally in a position where this wind isn’t going to knock over my drink or my computer or my mood.
It’s possible I’m writing all this upfront to avoid telling you what’s really going on.
—
There’s a death happening inside me. Major portions of me I wasn’t aware of until recently have now become the strangers I’m eulogizing. I mean, they knew me pretty well…but I didn’t know they existed until just before they died—like a beautiful old couple you exchange chit-chat with at a diner right before their car is hit by a semi-truck in front of you.
As terrifying as it is to witness (I am jittery as I write this, after all), you know they died together…and neither of them is going to have to mourn a dead spouse. It’s good they died together. It’s good they lived together. It’s good they were as old as they were.
It’s mind-boggling once you learn this couple knew you far longer than you knew of them…they weren’t in the same diner as you by coincidence.
Yes, you were on a road trip and happened to make a last minute pit stop at this spot you’re sure will be nothing more than some cheap food and pitiful excuses for coffee that remind you of that time you were with—
Stop it, you don’t have time for nostalgia. You’re too busy delivering a roadside eulogy while realizing they weren’t here just to get some eggs over easy. They were following you.
—
Their names reveal it— Arvins Lustforfame and Arvins Disregardforselfawareness. And now they’re dead.
They started following you (leading you if we’re being honest) when you were bullied as a child and you decided your best revenge would be the person you’d become when you were older.
As soon as I’m famous, they’ll regret the way they treated me today.
Once the world applauds me, they’ll know they were foolish to mistreat me.
Once others want to be around me, they’ll face-palm at the thought of their behavior throughout our youth.
She’ll regret standing me up on that second date and lying to me about liking me in the first place once she sees what she could have had had she stuck around…
And her? Oh boy, she’ll regret it when she realizes what could have been with Arvin.
—
These aren’t my thoughts, of course…not at all. The authors of those despicably narcissistic ideas were the man and woman who now lay on this road in front of me, having bled to death when the driver of an 18-wheeler decided it was worth it to bend down and pick up his smartphone from the floor mat beneath him.
“It’s sad to see you die…but you had to. You were getting old and I couldn’t have you following me around anymore. I don’t know how I’m going to get around without you—what will be my motivation if not the ultimate means-justifying end of being famous and proving every dishonorer wrong?”
What will I look like when you’re no longer standing on either side of me?
It all seems like such a coincidence, but these notes are starting to sound like they’re all in the same song for a reason…the dissonance is starting to sound like a hook…yes yes, I’ve heard this before.
What will you do? Now that you’re not eager to pimp your writing, rapping, preaching, and comedic gifts?
Do the talents go away? Or are you perhaps finally setting them free?
O God, I’m in over my head. I don’t know what I’m like if my ultimate goal isn’t being the object of everyone’s envy.
—
But wait a minute….how could these two have died unless I’m also ready to forgive everyone who first encouraged me to be followed around by them?
Am I actually over everything they said or did to me? Am I finally okay with who I am outside of their approval or jealousy?
Am I finally forgiving the world for not realizing that I am a god?
A liberation that hits me as hard as a semi, requiring I acknowledge I’m actually not God.
Hey Humility. What are you actually like? I made out with that girl who dresses like you for Halloween. She was exhausting, never stopped putting me down.
—
Maybe you can be Arvin now that you don’t have to pretend you’re preparing to play “God” in a movie. You can quit all this research. The position has been filled.
What are my talents like when I’m not prostituting them for your attention?
What am I like when I’m not trying to impress you with my nonchalance or, depending on the topic, intensity?
How cool it’ll be to finally meet me and not the man I hope you’ll like.
The versions of me that dress up like someone I’m not have hit the ground after falling from high up.
“I’m moving too fast for you.
You’re way too old for me.
You aren’t really helping me.
You’re a belt I’m too thick to wear, and a dress I don’t look good in…and even if I could fit within your pointless boundaries, what am I doing wearing a dress? You aren’t who I am nor who I will be, ever. “
I’m glad he dropped his phone.
I’m glad God disregarded my requests for him to replace himself with money and fame and whatever else I so often referred to as “his will.”
I’m glad I’m high up enough for you to have been short of breath, for your fall to be fatal and quick, for your attempts to cling to be futile. I’m glad the wind is blowing as hard as it has been…because unlike you, I’m finally dense enough to stand it.