This is so worth your time. Thanks to Reyna for the tip.
Right now my seventeen-year-old self, her days consumed in stress about what dreams may come after high school graduation, and my twenty-year-old self, similarly consumed about her mission and career, have a lot in common. We're both scared of what happens after I step off the cliff and into thin air--whether or not we'll have anything to come back to, whether or not we're screwing ourselves out of something important, whether or not we'll come to regret these moments forever. I was a more dramatic writer back then, but truth comes out despite my immaturity. Also, the calculus is wrong in my last statement. The limit of a constant as x approaches zero is itself the constant, which I guess still works in context if you want to play abstract games with your mind. In my defense, the omg-i-have-become-such-an-in-demand-calculus-tutor phase didn't hit until my second semester of college.
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This is all so...evanescent.
I feel like someone has told me the day I'm going to die, and I'm just helplessly hurtling toward the center of the void.
There's nothing I can do to stop my progress; the inertia's too strong to fight, but still I scream without a sound, dragging my fingernails through the cold, blank space, hoping against hope to clutch something--anything-- to preserve myself from the slashing reality of the terrible unknown.
Lacerating my sanity, one day at a time--
Exponential decay.
Despite my confidence in the ocean, I've been sucked into a riptide. I tear at the inscrutable liquid, gasping for breath in the isolating darkness, but my lungs are filling with salt water, and my eyes are glazing over.
And there's nothing I can do about it.
I'm clutching for a handhold after falling from a cliff, and my bloody fingers scratch at passing rocks in the painful vanity of desperation.
The sick feeling inside knows it was inevitable that I step from the cliff in the first place,
that it really was my choice--
I just didn't expect it to hurt so badly.
The impending pain leaks into every cell, one by one,
metastatic cancer of the thought.
It's coming, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
The limit of a constant as x approaches infinity is zero.
How's that for irony?
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