[Trigger Warning] Perhaps You've Been There on that Bridge Too.

No matter what happened, I always found myself back there on that bridge—staring down again, down into that darkness. That senseless, merciless, devouring darkness in which my eyes could drown themselves and I could briefly dissolve. The depths of that darkness in which I could forever dissolve, serenely submerged into the baptismal font of the bottomless black tomb, the bedrock of all my equilibrium which rested under the fickle and shallow watery blanket—all a black nothingness without substance, shape, or soul. An oily black pit awaiting me down there, the mouth of its gate gaping wide open, hungering to receive me.

Down there in the insuperable silence of its vast tomb, the eternal blackness teeming beneath the bridge, calling upon me with the strange winds, summoning me with the gentle and elusive cadence of its unforgettable clarion call. Yes, the voices floating up from the voices, the voices of invitation, invoking my name once more, those seductive siren voices billowing in a squall, inviting me to plunge yet again, once and for all down into the void. The vast void and its black vortex so alive with mystifying vibrations, whirling with angelic voices from the underworld singing from the waves. The sweetness of their song swimming in my ears, bewitching me in a swoon of madness, beckoning me forth from down below, from far beneath the bridge.

There on the bridge charmed yet again by the siren song from the cavernous abyss deep down below, swept up once again under the spellbinding muse of morbid fantasy. The fatal fantasy. There on the bridge where they always found me, where the world dissipated into the endless obscurity, where all was forgotten behind the mirage of that fatal fantasy.

Stripped down pathetic naked by the abuses and afflictions of life soaked scorched and savaged by all the vitriol of the world that I swallowed which sapped me lifeless and sucked my soul bone dry. How could I continue in the life of this blood coagulated inside decomposing body when I myself could make my quietus with the steel tip of a blade or a rope or a radio in a bathtub or carbon monoxide or a bridge or a jar of opiates and a bottle of rum or the collision of a bus or a subway or a bullet lodged right into the brain.

Lappel du vide. Imp of the Perverse.

Cigarette after cigarette ingesting the fumes sucking down the liquor with the pills numbing out into incoherent stupor make the pain stop force-feed myself the secret potion needed to poison myself, to put me down, put me out of my terminal torment and its interminable suffering. Disconnect this lifeline, deliver me from all that is here and all that I feel and all that is me. I choose not to be.

The rattling of pill jar, the counting out of tablets while deliberating in depraved excess over my suicidal urge. Wondering what itd be like if I just clumped them all together onto the palm of my hand and crammed them all at once into my mouth and then chased them down my throat with a glass of wine, a can of beer, or a shot of vodka, maybe even all three. How long would it take before my heart would stop and all the hellish miserable writhing pain would be smothered to death—wiped out by the fatal stroke of the death chord twanging like a single shrill organ key. The urge to realize this fantasy once unhinged jumped up and down in a wildly vaulting pulse. In a constant tug-of-war, a vacillation of intensity swinging from feverish to cold, surging back to feverish, then receding again into cold. Crossing the street in morning rush hour traffic and stopping there in the middle to think about what it would be like to be smashed by a zooming car. The instant crackling crunch of all my bones steamrolled under immobilizing impact half a second before my brain is mashed and squished and squirted out of my head in jelly gush. Obliterated into roadkill and deleted irrevocably from this garbage gutter existence of unrelenting torture. The idea stirred me with a perpetual perverse compulsion to take the leap of faith... The leap off the bridge. Just one short leap. Gravity would handle the rest.

Launch pad to immediate liberation. The nosedive into everlasting salvation.

Perhaps youve been there on that bridge too. Staring down down down into the cavernous blurry blue while you register the stupefying distance between you and it. That fatal distance. That tangible fatal distance clear-cut carved out before my eyes—the distance separating my physical bondage to life and the abyss of no return. A swift crossing of that distance. One steady advance toward it and the rest is carried out without the will. The forces of nature abduct you into their sweeping grip and then in a moment the pain will stop and vanish forever.

The journey of your body from here to there will destroy you abort into oblivion you and the whole utterly fucked-up scheme of things as you know it. Its right there in front of you—down there below, tempting inviting and daring you. Inside a voice taunting you with a single, importuning, imperative whisper-- Jump.

Just one impulse. Jump.

Just one trigger. Jump.

Just a single forward thrust will suffice.

Jump.

Resolve the entire conundrum for once and for all permanently cure the disease with but one decided bending of the will. One voluntary exertion of choice and then the rest will be speedily taken care of for me. The resolution—the binding finality—within my reach, within my leap—just down below. As above so below.

This is the way the world ends

Carry myself on the impetus chase the mystery over the edge and down down I will go-- a simple gesture of the will that would precipitate me into the descent

This is the way the world ends

The deadly descent into the shadow.

Not with a bang

Descent down the no-mans land of my final thoughts before smack splat the end-- Im gone-- no more.

But a whimper.