CHAPTER 1 - The Golden Gate Bridge

To be a fly upon a spinning vinyl reeks the same nostalgia as pillowy peonies wafting amongst a crimson horizon swearing matrimony to the strangers' faces whom arrive to reignite their astray identities and find solitude in their pink innocence. To be a fly on a broken record relays trepidation identical to that of slumbering and awaking into yet another dream. The fear of derealisation, existing in a body outside of your own, scoping the environment as a wanderer rather than a passenger only to be faced with the reality that, reality as you had previously known it to be, was fiction. As the same 4 chords recur at an escalating pace that seems to mimic a panic-induced heartbeat, you find that you can never seem to truly escape inception, and the fly that you had grew to identify with, perched willingly on the tabletop has underhandedly had its flight capabilities relinquished from it's possession as it's wings have been clipped off and it's legs have adhered to the vinyl, glued to the plastic like layers of keratin in a fingernail. And with every half turn the vinyl proceeds, the record player's needle punctures the thorax of the fly, accumulating abrasions on its outer casing as the fly delves deeper and deeper into inception. I am the epitome of the wounded, a representation of all those who are damned.

I find myself overlooking the crystalline waters, calmly shifting in harmonious deception, as though they are weary of the bodies they harbor. The waves move in unison. They have discussed the direction and magnitude to which they ought to conquer . Each has claimed their own personal perimeter to attack, yet today, their invasions seek tranquility. The juxtaposition is not lost upon me, yet I cannot help but question whether its serene climate is an invitation. An invitation to descend into it, join it in it's quest to bestow unity between all our troubled souls. It is the same body of water that I speak to, that countless other disturbed and depressed individuals came forth to discuss their distresses that dawned upon them, that accumulated to drown them in their strive. The water is undyingly knowledgeable. This lake beneath me made dreams come true in the most morbid context comprehendible. The water always presided its authority whenever it and I came in contact. It always knew of its divine disposition. I fault myself for thinking 'pretty lake' Why must it be so eloquent? Why did it have to speak the language of sonnets and poesy? And why have I been gifted with the literacy to not only comprehend it's dialects but to be vulnerable to the glamour of it's symphony. Many victims found themselves in my position, standing idly at the margin between this frigid metal bar under my weight and the air that sits next to the bar; the air that would catch me if I were to fall – or jump. The tension is impish. The concept of self-sacrifice seems so attractive when it is encompassed within the narrow four walls within your mind space. You can idolize the thought selfishly. I contemplate my location. There is nothing more pitiful than to commit on a bridge infamous for it's mortality rate yet here I am, situated on the very overpass that I criticized it's previous residents for their silent acquiescence, descending into the depths of an almighty, devouring sanctity.

The question is still lingering - in the air, in the water, in the vibrations of particles within the metal beams. Am I going to jump? Join them? Become another statistic that contributes to a scientific database, assisting the reputation of the notorious 'suicide bridge'. I ache with the painfully devastating revelation that there is no one left to care for my passing- if I were to sink. The issue lies not with my willingness to jump but my incapability to encounter the angels of death. They refuse to meet me, and I cannot fathom a reasonable explanation for their incompetence. I must try again though. I need to find a way to terminate this perpetual nightmare. From the metal plane I gaze downwards and pray, to whom I'm unsure. Perhaps to the highest entity, the highest order of divine specimen to aid me in ending this torment. With hopeful prayers glossed on my lips, I jump.

I am spared from deaths kiss once more. All I am is a prisoner of this dreamscape. I am genesis and finality. I am collapse and recovery. I am black and white and all the shades of grey in-between. I have accumulated a hefty portfolio of characters relating to triumphant heroes saving damsels in distraught to diabolic villains causing tyranny under my own kingship bred from my imagination. I am to live for eternity. It was my gift. Now, it is my greatest regret.