I had the worst dream last night.
You and I were on top of a really high tower. Kind of like Gandalf at the top of Orthanc, but it was morning, and there was a little parapet lining all four sides. You were standing in a corner, peering over the edge, and I was in the opposite corner, looking at you. I asked you what you were doing, and you said you were looking to make sure it was all clear down below, so you wouldn’t land on and hurt anyone, but you couldn’t see all the way down to the ground because of the mist. And I leant over the wall in my corner and saw the same opaque white haze that you saw.
I told you I was reminded of a movie.
“There’s a little town, and one night there’s a storm, and the power goes out, and a dense mist starts enveloping the whole town, and there’s a bunch of people stuck in the supermarket. And they realise the mist is hiding monsters. There’s a lot of blood and gore, and many people die horrible deaths, and eventually this kid, his father, and three other people manage to escape, and they’re in a car driving away from the town. And they drive and they drive, and everywhere they just see total destruction, and finally they’re in the desert and they’ve lost all hope, and they give up. They decide to kill themselves instead of dying at the hands of the monsters. But there are five of them, and they discover their gun has only four bullets. So the kid’s dad shoots the three others in the head, then shoots down his own son, and wanders out to meet his own inevitable death. But just as he climbs over a dune, he sees in the distance the army approaching, and they’re killing all the monsters, and he realises he’s going to survive. And it completely destroys him. He falls to his knees, and bawls his eyes out. It’s terribly tragic.”
And as your right foot lifted off the floor and settled on the ledge, you said, “So you’re trying to convince me to not kill myself by telling me a story about a guy filled with regret about not killing himself.”
And I replied, “No. Is that what you got from it? You don’t understand. He doesn’t regret not killing himself. He regrets killing his son and those other people so hastily. The moral of the story is to wait for help; that help is always just around the corner.”
Your left foot kicked off, along with the rest of you, and took its place on the wall alongside the right, leaving you teetering precariously on the brink.
“I’ve waited long enough”, you said. “Where’s my help?”
That made me angry.
“Are you seriously asking me that question? What the fuck do you think I’m doing here?”
I couldn’t see your face, so I’m not sure, but you must have started tearing up. Your voice was heavy and shaky.
“Are you here to help me?”
I didn’t let up.
“No, I’m here for the fucking view. Are you a fucking moron? Of course I’m here to fucking help you! Oh wait, maybe I should clarify, daft as you are, that I’m here not to help you kill yourself but to help you survive and fix your troubles, whatever they are. Is that clear?”
“Will you now do me the favour of stepping down from there? On this side, preferably”, I said, both index fingers pointing down at my feet.
And you obliged.
Relieved, I walked up to you and congratulated you on doing the right thing. I told you I’d help you resolve your issues, and I asked you what they were.
And you said, “I found a worm in my sapota."