Staring into space...

I hung up the phone and with robotic motion programmatically poured myself a drink. Looking up from the floor I realised I was still on my feet, my fall arrested by a hand gripping the counter, and I contemplated how out of sync my thoughts were from my memory whilst I stared into space. 

Musical accompaniment: Oliver Tree - All In All 

I picked up my glass and went back out to the balcony where I'd left my laptop, the ever-present view out over Black Mountain, and Beckett-in-exile (because he's declared a fatwa against the Spider Plant which Sandra left me as a housewarming present, and jihad goes both ways). Out here in the darkness of my apartment's Oort cloud I sat, bathed in the backlight of my personal and professional universe, whilst ice cubes died with a pop and a clink in the amber warmth enclosed by titanium-crystal glass. 

Conceding the battle against nihilism, I'd just ordered pizza delivery when the message came in: 

I dialled Pete's number as I went down the lift to take collection, and shoved what I received into the oven to keep it warm. By the time we hung up it had grown tepid, but that detracted nothing from the flavour; mass-produced pizzas are a dish best-served cold, furthermore it masks the taste of ashes when one finds themselves dining on them. 

My hand went from gripping the banister to the bench as I orbited in and out of the double-glazed door demarking the frigid outer-system and the overly-warm temperate zone nearer the fridge. These conversations have been happening more and more often; dirty snowballs shedding mass every time he chances his luck in hell in an attempt to leave a mark before he burns out and fades away. 

Staring out into the empty grey of an overcast sky the colour of a television tuned to a dying business-plan, I went looking for words to describe the texture and taste of the moment I had to tell my once-valued-client-now-dear-friend that he needed to take a knife to the throat of his dream.

 They were hard to find; the fault is, as always, my own. 

The 109th Rule of Acquisition dictates that "Dignity and an empty sack is worth the sack," but we forget sometimes that 'value' is subjective; all in all I've come to realise that it's what the client wants that's most important. If the Emperor can proudly parade down the promenade in the proverbial, perhaps we've a paradoxical exchange rate vis a vis pride? 

Gripping the handle of my balcony door for the penultimate time that evening I realised that the question "Is this the hill you want to die on?" is only 'rhetorical' when you're young. You don't perceive that you've passed perihelion until you've presented your pate to the prosecutor's proboscis, proclaiming: 
"Come at me bro!" 

I might be beyond help, but somewhere along the line I've dedicated my life to securing the hill upon which shines a light to guide those who want to help even though they feel helpless. I might not be able to do it for everyone, or even tell them how, but I want every one of my fellow travellers to be able to look up from the dark and empty places they must walk and know that it can be done. 

Thinking about the loneliness I could see in Pete's voice, white-knuckles gripping the wheel waiting for the kick from the wind he so desperately needs to shake his sails, I let go of the rail and went to stoke the beacon's fire. Whether it serves as a star to steer by, or a light on the horizon when his dreams fade to grey, the warmth of knowing he's not alone is the least I can give him.