The way it breaks

No. Fucking. Way.

He couldn’t believe it was true. His eyes widen and his pulse starts to race. It feels like the first time he had sex or what he imagined it would feel like to win at pretty much anything at all.

It was the most money he’d ever received. A few year ago he’d taken out a small loan from the bank, but that was bittersweet because he knew he had to pay it back; eventually. Or worse, he knew there was a possibility that he couldn’t pay it back at all. But not this. This was all his. And he could do whatever he wants with it, completely free to choose. But that’s the $20,000 question...what should he do with it?

As soon as he realised it wasn’t just a figment of his imagination, he rushed to the bank grinning. He wanted to materialise it out of its digital form and into cold hard cash because he literally couldn’t believe it was real.

That ecstasy didn’t last... Soon the pressure of what to spend it on set in.

This question was increasingly troubling. At first it was fun, and exciting, and the possibilities seemed endless. But the more he thought about it, the more the question weighed on him. His early adulthood had been marked by a wasteful irresponsibility with money. His family never had much growing up and he’d never quite learned how to manage whatever money he did have. Savings had never seemed to accrue the way they did for other people. Maybe it was a lack of discipline, or education, or some other inescapable moral flaw. But whatever the cause, it was the way things had always been in his life. A constant cycle of living hand to mouth, pay check to pay check. And as much as he let himself day dream, in the cold sober light of reality he couldn’t see any way out of this cycle. That was what he suspected was nagging at him. He was scared. Scared of his own failings, scared he’d squander it. But this was an opportunity, even just to prove to himself that he could spend any meaningful sum of money wisely.

He’d spent two days manically scribbling notes into his small black notebook. It was one way he tried to manage the kaleidoscope that was his brain. It usually just overflowed with lists trying to organise what lists to organise first. He was constantly inspired but never seemed to escape the fear that held him back from accomplishing anything meaningful. He felt deep down that he was an Artist. He’d always loved drawing, he’d studied art and even built enough of a body of work to hold a few exhibitions. But it still hadn’t materialised into the vision he thought it should be. He felt like a fraud, living the tragedy of the creative. The writer who never finishes a story, or the painter who never makes a mark on their canvas. Mercifully he held enough faith to not ever resolve to give up completely. But at times it felt like he was trying to sculpt stone with his bare hands.

Still, he tried his hardest to be sensible. He considered paying all his rent in advance. But there’s no instant gratification in that. It would just be a boring example of the quick-to-come/quick-to-go relationship he’d always had with money. If he thought too hard about it it was depressing. Maybe that was the reason for this inclination to blow it all on something fun. After all, wouldn’t he feel like a moron if he payed his rent for the next twelve months only to be hit by a bus or an asteroid the next day. The exciting choice was something new and shiny. Maybe a new car. Or even better; the motorbike he’d always wanted, but been too scared of his deep-seated death wish to ever fully commit to.

But he already had a car that was constantly breaking down. And eventually whatever he bought would just wear and become obsolete. If it’s something impermanent -which if he thinks about it long enough, he realises all things really are- why not fully commit. What about something extravagant like a ridiculously big fancy watch, or whatever real rich people spend their money on.

He decided to go for a hike to clear his mind and ruminate on the decision. Hoping fresh air in his lungs and a steep incline would provide some clarity. He needed some catharsis anyway. This was the first good thing to happen in a while. He’d had a streak of bad luck that has a way of making him feel like everything is pointless. Nothing any worse than anyone else. In fact as far as world suffering is concerned, his troubles were minor. 
A broken heart, money problems, self-doubt, and a general sense of meaningless that seems to comes along with modern society.

He pulls his increasingly beat up Subaru into the deserted gravel parking lot of the trail, unnecessarily paranoid about the relatively large sum of cash he was carrying. It was unnecessary because the withdrawal was underwhelming. He’d gone out and bought a duffel bag to take it out in cash, but it was embarrassingly oversized…a bum bag would have done fine. So he tucked the rolled up wad of cash into a pocket of his backpack along with some water and his notebook. He was going to hike to the top of this peak and sit down with his notebook and figure it out once and for all, clear headed & communing with nature.

Halfway up he realised it wasn’t working like he’d planned. Now his neurosis was just accompanied by a sharp pain in his lungs, and a deep burning in his legs. Moments like these were the hardest for him to overcome. He knew on the surface he should feel great. He has full use of his body, a nice chunk of money in his backpack, fresh water and the time to indulge and enjoy this all on a relatively pleasant day. But still, something in his consciousness, somewhere that he can’t quite find, nags at him. He feels haunted by his thoughts. They linger ephemerally, always at the edge of his grasp. He pushes his legs harder and draws deep forceful breaths to try and force the gratitude into himself. But his mind is unravelling. He can feel himself spiral into existential crisis.

By the time he reaches the summit the weather has turned to reflect his own inner world. The skies are darkening and he can sense a storm that wasn’t there an hour ago. And like his own storms he knows it will pass, but still poses a real threat when caught in the middle of it. He’s exhausted. Not just from the hike. He sits down a few metres away from the cliff edge and takes a moment to admire the view while he regains composure and tries to re-claim control of his body. He stares into the view that he knows is impressive, but it leaves no impression within him. It doesn’t resonate, like the lack of an echo in a void. He sips his water and opens the pages that have come to represent the unorganised chaos that is his mind. His own hand-writing stares back at him as an expression of his own identity. The pages are filled with late night epiphanies, tidbits of different concepts and random facts. There was a lot of mundane things in that notebook too, grocery lists and errands to run. Things unimportant enough that they’d slip his mind if he didn’t leave hard evidence of their existence. In some ways he thought that was the purpose of those pages. They existed as an artefact that bore witness to his own flickering existence. But the most recent pages are filled with financial decisions. He stares at his options, unable to engage in any meaningful way and commit to a decision. He knows that in the grand scheme of things he’s doing fine. Roof over his head, clothes on his back, a few luxuries, and enough food in his belly every day to result in a soft midsection. Maybe he doesn’t deserve this money at all, maybe he should share it, take everyone he loves out to a really expensive restaurant. Or maybe it should go to someone less fortunate. This line of thinking charitably is a treacherous one though. Where do you even start? Do you help someone on the edge of poverty, or someone who’s already crossed the line into homelessness? Then what about the millions of people in the third world who never even had the opportunity to waste money? The choice soon becomes overwhelming and he feels helpless and minuscule by the scale of world issues. Best to try and shake the feeling and take care of himself. Play the game in front of him and work with the cards fate has dealt. But what is best choice for himself? Maybe he could invest it, put a little money into crypto-currency, get a portfolio thats good and diverse. Or maybe he could use it as a deposit to sign himself up to a mortgage that’ll take the majority of his life to pay off. Only to have the house eventually collapse to the same decay that his own body would.

He sits and stares. He can feel the first drops of rain and the sting of a cold wind but he feels detached from his body. He just sits. And stares. He feels defeated by the weight on indecision. He’s been here before. He feels worthless. He wants to stay here and just wait. He wants to wait for the day that he’s doesn’t feel like he’s just passing time.

Without realising, he’s standing up and moving towards the edge. A sudden and euphoric fear engulfs him and he can feel each one of his nerves firing at once. The deep primal vertigo of self preservation screams at him to stay at a safe distance but his toes are right up to the edge now. It feels as if he’s floating. He stands with his eyes closed. The fear of dying and the fear of existence flow through his body seeking equilibrium.

One more step and he’s falling towards the ground, air rushing all around him, embracing him. Its peaceful and sad. A voice deep down inside him says “you are all alone”. But thats a lie. He knows he has people who love him, people who will miss him. People who’s lives won’t be the same without him. His love for these people is what scares him the most. The fear that it won’t last. That one day they’ll be gone, and he’ll be gone. And that nothing will matter.

But there’s also peace in that moment.

He opens his eyes and looks down into the void. He’s face to face with his fear. He lets it pass over him, feels it pass through him. And when the fear dissipates he’s left alone. Struck by a sudden nihilistic realisation that there’s a comfort to be had in that emptiness. If it all means nothing then there is nothing to lose. He’s reminded of reading philosophers who’s names he has neither the motivation or the capability of remembering. But he’s reminded that the present moment is what’s most important. The future and the past are only illusions that he’s grasping for. Maybe what he need’s isn’t more, but less.

And in that moment he feels the synapses connect, he knows what he should do. He reaches into his bag and holds the notes in his hand. He feels like for the first time he sees them for what they are, devoid of what they represent. And with that, he throws the money into the wind.