from my story book Paradox of fiction
Just one word. Nothing more. No smiley. No period. There’s no need to put a dot after “enough” It’s already there. Hidden, but present. Plain to see. It was the last word he wanted to read. That’s why it came last. Not without reason. He had screwed up enough because he hadn’t tried hard enough. Maybe more than enough. It hit him hard. He didn’t know anything well enough. Not well enough. And so, his performance was rated the same: not good enough. It just wasn’t good enough for a better grade. If he’d experienced this more often in life, it might not have shattered him so much. But this was his first time. All that was left was to come to terms with it. Preferably fast enough.
Inspiration was gone. The engine of the past few weeks had gone silent. This is it. End of the line. Everyone off. He didn’t regret the time spent. He regretted that it had been just a dream. A painfully vivid one.
Enough. Pour yourself a drink, you idiot. A bigger one than usual. Don’t drink? Your loss. All you do is make mistakes. One after another. Life isn’t some childhood scrapbook. Life is a goddamn bitch; that’s why it seems like bastards are better at it. Step on yourself. Become one of them. One of us. You were one of us. Before you tried to be better. But understand this: you never will be. Never. It’s in your blood. You just know how to smile sweetly while you do it. Remember now? Yeah, yeah… it wasn’t that long ago. Twenty years? Twenty-five? Does it matter? No one will ever erase it from you. You liked it down here with us, so why the hell are you trying to climb up? Who are you trying to prove something to?
Ah, you’re tired of the quiet life… just admit it. Enough. Sounds tempting, doesn’t it? Want to know why? Because you’ve aged. Your brain—your best friend—has aged. You think you’ve seen it all. Trust me… you’ve just been lucky. But you haven’t even scratched the surface of what’s possible. Sure, it doesn’t have to end well, but that’s not what you’re looking for. If you wanted a happy ending, you would’ve ended this long ago. You’ve got everything. Except peace. Not the kind of peace you’re looking for. Always under control. Every step. Even writing this, you’re doing it when no one’s watching. Bravo, you’ve fulfilled your dreams. Bravo.
Another bout of self-pity. That’s what’s killing you. More than anything, you pity yourself. That’s the only real thing in your life. Your selfishness. Probably. There has to be something like that. People don’t change. So neither do you. You’re just a player. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. Your entire life. Your bets reflect your nature as a gambler. All in. Everything. You could lose it all, but you can only gain what’s in the pot. It’s stupid. But it’s thrilling. The winnings are never as big as what you stand to lose. It’s easy. Because every game has its rules. But for it to work, everyone has to play the same game. Play the round. At least two players. The prize is the other person. Relationship baccarat. Baccarat Banque. Cards are dealt. And then comes the suspense. The third card. The third. Enough. So close to the goal. But will it be enough? Won’t someone else be closer?
You were so focused on the atmosphere of the game itself that you have no idea how many players are in it. You’re just playing. You have no connection to anyone or anything. That’s why you’re not scared of losing. You have nothing to lose. Everyone else is living their lives. And you? You keep trying to live someone else’s life. You’ve already fucked up your own, so why not fuck up someone else’s? Right?
Or do you think anyone buys the bullshit you’re selling? No one understands what you’re after. Just talking? And about what?
About life?
Its pointless length?
Its fleeting nature?
Infinity?
The endless river of your nonsense?
Enough
Enough already
This is too much
It’s over
Overkill
.
All photographs and texts are my own and are protected by copyright law. Their use is permitted only with my written consent. MIC©
