Not really about Fight Club

When you read too much Fight Club, you begin to talk like Fight Club.

Short, clipped sentences. To the point. Well, not always to the point – often it’s longwinded metaphors about airports and landing times and sleep. You get to the end and feel a bit weary and jet-lagged yourself.

Like I do now. Talking like Fight Club. Feeling like they do in the first fifty pages of Fight Club.

Despair. Loss. A drive towards death.

It’s not only because of the book, though. I guess I’m just a bit listless, a bit lost. Thoughts of suicide flash in and out – though, technically, it’s not always suicide. Often, it’s just an image of death.  Bomb blasts, car accidents. And the best: accidental death! The desire to step in front of a big red double-decker bus that zooms towards me as my foot hovers over the pavement and my eye fixes upon the stationary little red man who dares me to move. Dancing in front of my eyes in his stand-at-ease position, flickering ever so slightly and nudging me to be less like him, to seize the chance and take two steps forward, and make it all look like a very, very unfortunate event.

Related, perhaps, to the urge that courses through me every time I’m at a train station, or in the underground. Standing at the platform, behind the yellow line, looking down into the eight foot trench scattered with rocks and rabble and laid with two endless, smooth lines of steely track, tempting me forward. Toeing the yellow line I shut my eyes, straining to hear the distant whistle of an oncoming whizzing red-white&blue monstrosity.

If I time this right, I can step forwards and jump and fly through the air myself. Never even touch the ground of the trenches; never be down there looking up like an agonized soldier about to be bombed; never hear the screams of passersby resounding and the deafening pounding sound of vehicles approaching.

I’ll just fly through the air and never be seen again.

Empty. Gone. Cold.


Without the decisions that need deciding; the problems that attack me, demanding solutions; the continual reminders of the way my heart split into broken bits scattered across the earth in different continents – useless, un-whole, to anyone, especially myself.

I’ll fly instead.

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