Balance now, yes, balance by default because that’s all that’s left. Followed by…? Well, what? Answer me, boy. Collapse, perhaps. Or is it explosion I’ve chosen. Hard to say which, though, hard to tell the difference, truly, and harder still to care, but it sounds serious. Maybe one, then the other. Maybe one, maybe both—maybe they lead to the same place-thing. You think of that? I did. Could quite easily very well maybe be. Singularity at last, atop a pile of pieces, then plunging or bursting into nothing, straight nothing. The beautiful, rugged inevitability of a darkness so deep it kindles and vexes like a beginning. A gift, this, the start of an ending.
Too hard on them, yes, too hard, always, on them and me. Can’t but analyze, though, always living beside the moment they’re in and wondering why I’m stuck standing there, watching and waiting, picking apart and forgiving and excusing and picking apart some more. They, the loved, loved so much I’d go out of my way to create just the right-sized cliff from which to invite them for a leisurely little desperate jump, a friendly, loverly plummet. A trust exercise, no? Or an exercise of trust. To feel and to show, so they know, so I do—that was always why. Who goes first, we’d wonder. Is there a push or a pull—or a push then a pull—or will we leap together? What’s down there to catch us? Did we think this through? Should we? Wait, why are we jumping?
We scrambled around that vacant building trying to find the children, five or six of them there were. Danger impending, inexorably, and we drank it on inhalation, felt its empty ever-stare, or thought we could, and that was enough. And then what turned to what now, and what about us too. The grass was tall outside and we knew they were gone. What to say, what to say, what to do and say about it, where to go, to look. Then the breeze picked up and I breathed the danger even more deeply as I looked out the glassless aperture in the cinderblock wall at the field and trees beyond, just grey, yellow, green, and an edge of deepening early evening blue above and then you were gone too. But that was just a dream.
Heard you were still here, you heard I was gone. Not yet, quite. But I’m on my way, my highs gone high and lows reaching their latest newest depths. How the pendulum swings, with me clinging. Do you remember? The night sidewalk was wide open for our first kiss and I felt everything around us knew it as I walked close past you, the streetlights, the headlights, the pavement, the windows, the crack in the concrete by your left foot. But the pendulum swung right between and now you’re becoming a stranger, will become stranger with each swing. And I’ll be gone, if you only knew what that meant. No matter, though, I’m a stranger too, mostly to myself. And that will be that and was will be too, at last.
At last. At last, the swinging has ceased and I can piece the thought together, letting it settle, jagged edges and all. I approach cautiously as if it has spikes and a temper, beside my own moment now, the only one, and I examine, obsessed: it feels, smells, sounds, looks as I believe it should. It must be ready. What is so grand and noble about change, what is so charming about disruption and inconsistency? Explosion, then collapse. There’s your grand, charming nobility.
Nocturne in E flat. E is for the end. Ah, get it over with. “Describing—that is the last ambition of an absurd thought,” he said, and how right. The last, and absurd. Just one quick, firm slice each, then drain drain. Explode, collapse. I’ll think of you to make sure I go deep enough.
 Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus