The Tower

Photo by Rob Klug

You know it’s been a good night when you fall asleep with soot smeared on your face and your eyelashes singed. When you close your eyes, the storms of Jupiter dance across the back of your eyelids. Your pulse is synced to music only you can hear. Every breath you take is black.

Before you went to bed, you walked everywhere with a canister of white gas in your hands. Your footsteps sloshed and echoed with luscious splashes. You settled into back alleys and warehouse parties and filled paint can after paint can with your fuel. You savored the way it felt to absorb it into your fabric.

And then, there was a spark of a lighter in the dark, and your whole world ignited with heat and light and sound. The flames twirled around you like you were a galaxy. When the fire kissed you, it left fearsome stings, but you liked the way they marked you, like hickeys from a lover.

Before you disappear into a deep, dreamless slumber, you finally let yourself name what you’ve been craving: To pull the Tower.

To give yourself permission to tear the world apart.

Now you understand, in these last seconds before dripping into blackness: Sometimes you have to burn it all down and build from scratch to create the better version. And that’s okay.

That’s okay.