A man who has blown all his options can't afford the luxury of changing his ways. He has to capitalize on whatever he has left, and he can't afford to admit--no matter how often he's reminded of it--that every day of his life takes him farther down a blind alley.
Hunter S Thompson
You're trying to be chill, you're trying to play it cool, take it easy, go with the flow. Trying ain't everything though, and you don't need anyone to tell you that, not as you're standing there in the snow, shivering in a thin coat and stamping your feet as you hit the buzzer.
It takes what feels like a million years for an answer (holy christ hurry up) and you're wondering what the fuck you're doing here, you swore up and down a million times you'd never be standing outside this door again: you're too old for this shit anyway, you oughta be at home, in time for dinner as promised. You oughta be anywhere but here. And you don't know why, rough day maybe, but you need this so badly right now that you feel sick (desperate), and the cold isn't the only reason you're shivering, and the cold certainly doesn't explain why your chest feels so tight, why you're about to have a panic attack right there on the fucking street.
Someone answers the buzzer, you say, "Hey, it's me," and then you're up the stairs, two at a time. You're winded by the first landing (fucking cigarettes), and by the second you have to stop to catch your breath.
What are you doing? (I don't know.) You should go home. (I know.) What's the matter with you? (I don't know, I don't know, I can't explain, I just really really need this right now.) You're a loser. (I can handle it this once.) The hell you can.
It's never too late to walk away; it's already too late to walk away. And you know the look he's going to have on his face when you slink home tail between legs, the tight little hurt look as he purses his lips and looks away. Yeah, you've seen him make that face once or twice or maybe three-four times before. There's gonna come a time when apologies and promises won't cut it anymore. Maybe it'll be this time. Maybe you'll come home this time, ready with an explanation-slash-apology (hey, look, sorry, listen, we need to talk, I just did something really stupid, I swear it won't happen again) and he'll already be gone. And he'll have made the right choice. He deserves better. Someone smart, someone normal, someone with a handle on his temper, someone who isn't dumb enough to keep comingeverything back to this stupid fucking place no matter how many times he says that the last time was the end. One day you're gonna come back and the closet will be empty, the only thing remaining of him a lingering scent, maybe a note telling you all the things that you already know.
You don't know why, don't know why you can't just stay away, don't know why you're gasping in a sickly fluorescent, puke-smelling landing in a building you swore over and over again you would never come back to, you don't know why you need it so bad right now but you do, every part of you is bending like a sounding rod to this one forbidden thing
He's gonna leave. (I know.) You should go home. (I know.) You're gonna kill yourself someday. (I know.) You said this was over. (I can't help it.) The hell you can't. (I swear, I want to but I can't right now.) Then when? ...Idiot. (Shut up.) You really are pathetic, you know that. (Shut up.)
It's never too late to walk away.
How many more times are you planning to do this? (This is I swear it is this is the last time.) Don't lie to yourself; you're a pussy who thinks the bumps flow a lil easier when you're not on the wagon. (It's just the once; this time it's gonna be okay, I can handle this one time.) How many times more are you gonna say just this once? (Oh Christ I need this I need to go home I need to get my shit together I really need a fix...)
And yet you you keep doing this, keep finding yourself catching your breath with your hands on your knees in filthy fucking stairways, the wrong parts of town, hesitating before knocking on a door you shouldn't touch, hating yourself and having pathetic little internal conversations about your exact degree of suckitude, stupid little circular arguments with yourself when you know know i know /I what you have to do. There are no shades of gray on this one, not anymore. Fun has long since dropped out of the equation. But you don't have the cajones or commitment or willpower or whatever it is that it takes. You're white-knuckled and trembling and maybe actually the run up the stairs isn't the only reason you can't breathe: this could be the time you walk away.
This time could change everything. You could turn back right here and now, you could go home and smoke some weed, take the edge off, relax. You could forget it right now. You haven't fucked up yet. You're halfway: an equal number of steps back downstairs, to the street, to the taxi that'll take you home, safe and warm, to curl yourself inside the arms of another human being. This time you could shiver in the embrace of someone who loves you and tell him everything. He would kiss you so soft, so sweet, so innocent, and the two of you could make love like the first time, slow, gentle, tentative. You would explore the mysterious terrain of his body with your tongue as your guide, the soft ridges of his ribcage like waves on the ocean. You could give yourself as much of a blank slate as any human being could ask for. Sliding your hand down the smooth skin of his back, skin on skin, sloping down to the delicate small of his back, up again over the smooth curve of his ass. You could go home and wait it out and make small talk and cuddle on the couch watching Bette Davis movies, feeding each other popcorn and sharing joints. You could make it stop, in this moment.
Or you could throw it away, one euphoric evening that a million evenings cuddled on the couch can't touch, that a million whispered promises and intimate nights can never compete with. One evening swaddled in something larger than you or anyone or anything else, one evening where all worries and cares are erased completely. One evening spent erasing everything past, good and bad, for a sleepy foetal feeling nothing else can begin to compare to. One time, and maybe you can be forgiven for this slip too. This is more primal than love, more demanding than hunger, more urgent than anything else.
Or not.
Let's be honest: logic has absolutely nothing to do with this: stark needs are the only things that count, a tallying of pros and cons and acceptable losses.
This could be the end. It's not too late to walk away.
It's not too late to walk away.