And what kind? Salted or buttery? Or maybe both?
I’m asking you — the one whose hand automatically reaches for a snack whenever there’s a “show” to watch. Be it someone’s pain, humiliation, or the desperate dance of a person balancing on that infamous knife’s edge. Because your hand doesn’t reach toward the other — it recoils. Your body leans back a little, just enough to get a better view. To make sure every detail fits in the frame, but still close enough to see the face. The face twisted by fear or tears. From that safe distance, you can see the whole body tense, the knees trembling, and the dark pit yawning beneath. The one they might fall into.
Live broadcast.
For your entertainment only.
If they fall — that’s the best part. You get to watch them plummet, hear that final, desperate scream. Every detail of the scene etches itself into you — the sound, the image, the movement — and, with luck, it’ll last a lifetime. A keepsake for your countless miserable, lonely, frustrated hours… maybe even for those few poorly executed sexual encounters. All it takes is recalling the picture burned into your retina, and suddenly time flows faster, your libido stirs. You smile, comforted by the thought: at least you weren’t them. Their fall was pure hell. What’s that compared to a lousy fuck?
If they don’t fall — that works too.
The fear, almost tangible and thick in the air, becomes perfect small talk for a quiet dinner table.
It spices up any dull conversation.
For those few minutes while you tell the story, your cheeks flush, your breath quickens.
And if you’ve got a bit of imagination, you can embellish it: twist it, stretch it, add or subtract as you please.
Anything to make it last longer, to keep the story thrilling enough to pass on.
No one else saw that private little movie of yours, the one full of possibilities. You could even make yourself the hero, the brave savior with the sword drawn.
You could talk about it condescendingly, stressing the supposed weaknesses of that poor soul who almost fell.
But didn’t.
Because thank God, you were there.
You — so fascinating, so selfless.
You might say you just like to live dangerously.
But that’s not what this is.
If you really craved danger, you’d lie across that damned pit yourself, digging your nails into the earth just to hold on — and to help.
No, what drives you is something else. That deep, primal, body-and-soul-woven envy.
The kind that lights up at every signal, every trigger, flashing its blinding neon sign:
“You don’t even deserve it!”
Because everyone knows you’re the one who should’ve had it.
Even if, deep down, you’d have no idea what to do with it.
Sometimes I have to stop and take a good look at you.
Even though I’ve seen you so many times.
Your kind crosses countries, cities, degrees, circumstances, ages, and genders.
And yet every time, I’m still amazed:
Are you really shoving that fucking popcorn into your mouth while that poor bastard just meters away is clutching his gunshot wound?
And is that… a smile I see on your lips?
I wish I could grab your shoulders — really shake you — just so you’d understand:
no movie’s ever going to pull you out of the shit,
and there aren’t enough good stories in the world to fill a whole life.