Quitter

Is there a term for quitter's regret? Buyer's remorse in reverse, agonizing over the now undeveloped lot left by a reckless destruction. Reckless in the sense that it took all of fifteen minutes from spark to conflagration, from idea to execution, not nearly enough time to consider the aftermath of such an act, just enough time to get to safety before the unmaking. So many of the people in this world I adore and even more of those I look up to are strictly measured with their consumption of problematic vices, I thought I could quit in an instant after having absorbed the beautiful stories of their struggles. In a way, I was right. I did quit in an instant, but the smoldering pile of rubble left on my mind must now be reckoned with in hindsight. A not-quite-empty lot filled with twisted remnants of the life I built on unstable ground. It lives on long after the dust settles, every day I am reminded of what once was, shamed by the residue.

It is always easier to destroy than it is to create; I accept that this particular destruction was a necessity, the building on this formerly developed lot was rotten at the base, foundation of sand and loose cobblestones haphazardly stuck together by a thin layer of mortar. I chose this building for demolition after realizing the company that assisted with the build was a cynical fraud, that the foundations were riddled with devices intended to steal the parts of me I didn't know were valuable to sell to shareholders I would never know. The contractors who laid these bricks alongside me knew the endgame, knew their work would be co-opted by mindless ghouls worshipping at the altar of The Line, but they said nothing. None of us said anything, to be fair. The entire neighborhood in which this particular building dwelled was full of buildings just like it, occupied by others whose valuables were also being picked off for wholesale to the cruelest idiots the world now knows. We watched it happen, avaricious machinations unfolding too fast and too big for any of us to do anything. So I did all I could do, and removed my contributions. No great sacrifice, there is little nobility in the act of demolition, but I feel some perverse vindication in the rearview mirror. Those cruel idiots can’t touch me now, nor can they co-opt my words and images. I’m free. (Sort of.)

This building was older than my womanhood. Its lower levels were an artifact from a dead epoch, probably filled with ancient remnants of struggles past like a hoarder’s detached garage. I didn’t bother to search for meaningful pieces in the mess, any prior attempt to clear the clutter was foiled by nostalgia and the acrid taste of embarrassment in my mouth. Traumas and overshares in pretty frames on walls crumbling under their psychic weight, sheets of pixels imbued with agony whose sharing hadn’t numbed said agony in the slightest. The whole structure had to go, that much was clear. All at once. If you place the explosives strategically enough the debris field will remain contained within the lot. Allegedly. Nobody accounted for the dust. A great thick cloud obscuring the horizon, even those with no knowledge of the demolition were affected. "Hey, wasn't there a building here a moment ago?" they ask. “Hey you used to live next door right? Wasnt there a building here a moment ago?” Yes, a building with an unstable foundation, it had to go. I say these words with no remorse in my mouth yet they come out tinted blue. Blue like fresh bruises, another form of shattering. Capillaries burst just beneath the surface of skin I am now learning to feel, undaunted.

Destruction is easier than construction. It makes intuitive sense to me, or rather it made intuitive sense to me when I was placing the charges. 13 years to reach those final heights, one bad afternoon to reduce it to dust. I'm something of a demolitions expert myself, no stranger to the singed smell of regret and high explosives. The nitroglycerin in my veins has been there since I can remember, jostled about and exploding constantly. I stay inside. I’m doing better lately, the sudden disappearance of this building affected me less than the one prior; a rush job done in a panic, spraying the sidewalk with chunks of concrete and stupid oversharing. I feel no regret for that one, the state of it necessitated a violent end. I only feel guilt for the mess I left behind in my haste.

Do I feel regret for acting so rashly this time around? Yes, and no. In waves, alternating at some unknown frequency. Yes, I miss the connections afforded to me by this particular building. In its heyday, the block was bustling with fascinating strangers. I miss chatting with strangers who I'd never meet with my own eyes, strangers who I admired greatly nonetheless, and I miss chatting with the not-quite-strangers whose physical presence I'd had the privilege of experiencing with my own body. I miss knowing what's going on, even if just to say "Not my thing," quietly to myself. The knowledge that these things were happening at all was soothing in its own way. A great bird without a nest perched on a high, bristling branch observing the happenings with eyes that see all. Glad to see all. I am not quite inoculated against the fear of missing out, but I am more than happy to live vicariously through those with more resilient constitutions. The only feeling better than a night out is the excitedly vivid retelling of a beloved who went in your stead.

No amount of time spent with feeble push brooms on the adjacent sidewalk will liberate me from the guilt of leaving, I just end up covered in dust I can’t shake off. Maybe some ruins are best left that way, remnants of someone else’s experience for the intrepid to plumb in some future where these buildings are no longer the holding pens they once were. A future liberated from the advertising miasma which rotted the baseboards like cruel termites. If that future comes to pass, maybe I will walk alongside those explorers, sifting through the rubble of a past life. Maybe I will find a framed photograph tinted with filters I once thought were the coolest shit technology had ever come up with. Maybe that photograph will bring a fresh wave of regret. Let the waves lap at the shores of my mind, I made my choice. There’s no going back. I’m free. (Sort of.)