Plunge

The evening is busy; early sunset confuses you and the streets are still filled with people, even as the temperature drops. You shiver but take determined strides to the edge of the island, longing desperately to pound the fuming storms within from your chest. Equinox is Wednesday, someone reminds you, and while they consider rebirth and renewal, all you see are days darker than the last, the arrival of death.

You follow the narrow, straight curve along the water's edge, watch Midtown Manhattan spread out like jewels ahead of you, feel your tired muscles beat themselves into a rhythm at your will. You consider the things you do not know, put words to all the things you lack and the meaningless drivel that makes a life. When Sylvia Plath was my age, she had been dead for three years. You have to buy yourself time before sticking your head in the oven.

There's a stretch of pavement, just about level with the ConEd plant, where there isn't a lot of light. Nevermind, you've run it a hundred times, you know where it leads. But there's a crack along the shadow, there's a moment of absent-minded tumult. I threw my cares to the wind, my limbs to the ground, swore loudly and paused, as I watched my phone fly over the railing, into the deep, dark depths of the East River, and when he asked if I was okay, all I could do was laugh.

Burn everything to the ground.

Rise again from the ashes.