Тонкое искусство пофигизма

           Standingthatclosetotheedgeofacliff,evenoneasbeautifulandmesmerizingastheCapeofGoodHope,inducesaheadysenseofvertigo,andthreatenstoregurgitateanyrecentmeal.

           Isthisit?Isthisallthereis?DoIalreadyknoweverythingIwilleverknow?

           Itakeanothermicrostep,thenanother.Twofeetnow.MyforwardlegvibratesasIputtheweightofmybodyonit.Ishuffleon.Againstthemagnet.Againstmymind.Againstallmybetterinstinctsforsurvival.

           Onefootnow.I’mnowlookingstraightdownthecliffface.Ifeelasuddenurgetocry.Mybodyinstinctivelycrouches,protectingitselfagainstsomethingimaginedandinexplicable.Thewindcomesinhailstorms.Thethoughtscomeinrighthooks.

           Atonefootyoufeellikeyou’refloating.Anythingbutlookingstraightdownfeelsasthoughyou’repartoftheskyitself.Youactuallykindofexpecttofallatthispoint.

           Icrouchthereforamoment,catchingmybreath,collectingmythoughts.Iforcemyselftostaredownatthewaterhittingtherocksbelowme.ThenIlookagaintomyright,atthelittleantsmillingaboutthesignagebelowme,snappingphotos,chasingtourbuses,ontheoffchancethatsomebodysomehowseesme.Thisdesireforattentioniswhollyirrational.Butsoisallofthis.It’simpossibletomakemeoutuphere,ofcourse.Andevenifitweren’t,there’snothingthatthosedistantpeoplecouldsayordo.

           AllIhearisthewind.