Breaking Points

We all have one. That point where even an exercise in futility becomes, well, an exercise in futility. Where you are stretched so taut that even the most inconsequential things can set you off, turning you into a raging, raving maniac, or turning you into a quivering, sobbing lump of pudding. Or both. There's always that one, too.

Everyone breaks.

There just comes that point where the facade crumbles, unable to support itself. Disappontment piles up on setback, adversity becomes the rule rather than the exception, then that first rock breaks loose and the avalanche can't be far behind. Everybody, it seems, wants something from you, but no one will do anything for you. There isn't even a you any more, because you are not you, but a symbol, an interpretation with no meaning. Sisyphus rolling a rock up a hill that never ends, at least he coud look forward to getting a break when it rolled back down again. Atlas had it easy; no one expected him to do anything but bear the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Devolution in action, take three steps back for every two steps back you take. It isn't true that when you have nothing, you have nothing to lose, because in the end you wind up losing yourself and that, I've been told, is something. But there are only so many times you can ride the rollercoaster before you lose the capacity to feel anything other than the icy fingers of incipient dread as they close on your throat, on your heart, a weight that can neither be endured nor denied. What use is it to fight, when nothing lies beyond it but more fighting?

It's more than just a psychic fugue, a temporary lapse of reason or judgment, a loss of hope. The only hope is that there will be no more hope, no more promises, no more no more. Just slink off into a corner before you make a bigger fool of yourself than you already are, and please try not to gibber in front of the polite company.

Everyone breaks. It's only a question of when.