So you’re an arsonist now?
It didn’t matter how you built your pyre. It still doesn’t. You weren’t sure how you were going to fracture yourself and fall together in a better way - like gravity, like collapsing into a black hole - but if death is an inevitability, surely the death of an ego is inevitable too?
It wasn’t supposed to matter, but it did. You carried sadness around you - you did, you did, and you still do. So what would come first, the sadness or the memories that caused them? It was a sick juxtaposition - it was the contrast between ‘okay’ and 'not okay’. You think that if you had never learned how to be happy in the first place you wouldn’t be so sad now. You think there’s still plenty of time left to be happy.
What did they - the pictures, the chatlogs, the people - matter to you now anyway? Physicality is easy to burn, physicality can disappear - into carbon under bunsen burners, into smoke. It was what came after you were afraid of - of not having anything to look back at, of not being able to pretend that this past was your future. It was not having these security blankets - not being able to read these conversations and trace over these memories until they were as smooth as your bathroom tiles from wear.
You think about them a lot. If a relationship has ten effort units total, and you give all ten, then you’re not going to get anything back. If you look up to someone, if you spend hours social media stalking, if you keep up obsessively without getting any acknowledgement of your existence, if you write emails that never get replies, if you spend hours upon hours drafting messages that never get read - then do you not force them to look down on you?
And you wanted to become something greater, to become a phoenix at the threat of rebirth - wanted something of revenge, or regret, or some other unnameable noun that started with r. You didn’t want to become something greater if they weren’t going to look back at you.
But not now. The pyre is built and the funeral is ready. There are no white flowers, no observers, no wills or last rites. Nothing but you and the flame. Nobody will cry for your death - but then again, do you need anyone to?
So you jump in.
Too little, maybe, but not too late.