How about Phoenix?

Phoenix. When I’m feeling down, I like to imagine that I’m a phoenix. And this instinct of death that pervades me is nothing but the final phase of one of the cycles in my infinite journey.

I’m not seeking suicide—I’m about to rise from my ashes.

Poetic, isn’t it?

Maybe not.

But at least it’s comforting. Sometimes. And sometimes it works.

Instead of jumping in front of the oncoming train, I close my eyes, breathe, and imagine — no, feel — my bones shattering on impact. I hear my blood, splattering on unsuspecting passersby, I feel it leaving my body, just like I did during those endless blood donations. It gives me a sense of lightness, a comfortable numbness.

The pain envelops me for an instant, unbearable and sublime… and then the train whistles — I’m back in the present, the one where I didn’t jump, the one where I chose, once again, to live.

And since it was my choice, I might as well make the best out of it. Right?

So here I am, a phoenix, rising from my ashes. Armed with delusions of grandeur and a profound love for everything. I know it won’t last, but I don’t mind: it’s the best state I know how to live in.

Until it’s consumed again, and I have to die and rise once more.

It’s like this all the time: an endless alternation of peaks of energy and resolute determination, and moments of longing for a death that can only find me in my imagination. Should I say that I’m bipolar? I think that’s a bit too strong a label…

Sweetheart, I just need one random word for the username.

Right. How about Phoenix?

Mhmm… taken. Try something else.

Darn! I really felt like a phoenix.

Thinking about it, though, there was a beautiful time in my life when I abandoned all security — my home, my partner, my job — and went on living in the streets, trying to seize the chance for a better life.

Back then, I felt a bit like a stray, especially because I kept running into the kindness of strangers. It was as if…

Year of birth?

1991

Great. Phoenix91. I will set the password for you. You can change it later at home: there are instructions on our website. You don't need to stay here.

With a blank yet challenging expression on her face, she hands me a yellow card.

“Username: Phoenix91 – Password: TalkToAPsychologist!”

Thank you so much!

Even if you put on a tough act, you're a kind and patient person, and that makes you beautiful — much more than a fit body or flashy clothes ever could. Try to remember that the next time your husband – what's his name? Dave? – Dave comments on those extra pounds. You should still sign up for the gym, though! But for yourself, not for him. Especially because you can meet interesting people at the gym.

I wink.

The librarian seems speechless.

As I walk away, her eyes are glued to me. I can feel them running up and down my back, wondering what my deal is. That's enough to keep the connection alive and continue reading into her soul.

She won’t sign up for the gym. She’ll miss the chance to gain the self-esteem she deserves and meet Frank. Too bad! They were perfect for each other. But free will is free will. She will leave Dave, though, in a few years, and remain happily single into her mature years. Oh, a salsa class, how original to… never mind. She looked away. Good luck, my dear Sarah, patient lady who plays tough and chooses salsa over a soulmate.

Where to now?

Destiny is nothing but the intricate fabric of consequences from the free choices a person can make. And when you can see the pure essence of a person, you can see their destiny. At least as it stands in their current state.

Of course, people change; that’s the beauty of it!

The choices they’ve made up to that point bind them, but new choices are added, while old ones fade. The linear fabric transforms into a sort of quilt, made of old and new patches. However, the quilt’s structure, its width so to speak, is predetermined from birth. And when you can see what threads a person is made of and what bed their quilt must rest on, you can see many things.

You can’t know how they’ll decorate it, but you can see how much yellow and how much blue they were given.

Does that make sense? No? Ok. I love you anyway.

One can't make pacts with the devil in exchange for one's soul. That's because there is no devil to make pacts with, nor a soul that can be separated from us.

But if we were to arbitrarily call “devil” the conceptual entity that disrupts the natural order of things in favor of one individual, then we could say that one can make pacts with the devil in exchange for reciprocity.

No lost souls, no curses, no eternal youth.

Just an upheaval in your life, in perfect reciprocal balance with the upheaval you asked for in the world.

I asked for absolute sincerity. I just wanted everyone to stop lying to me. I ended up being unable to lie either. I see their disembodied souls and can no longer hold my tongue.

Logorrhea, in exchange for intrusion.

Not what I wanted.

That’s why I think it's ok to call it "the devil". You get your wish, but the balance required for it will bite you in the back.

But what I hate the most is that nobody really remembers me. Not really. Not because they don’t listen or because I'm so ordinary… It’s as if they couldn't. Because there can be no society without lies. Absolute truth means absolute loneliness.

All these years of seeing souls, and no one can tell me what’s inside mine. There is no mirror for my gaze.

Be careful what you ask for, they say, because sooner or later, someone will answer.

I stride through the crowd, looking for something. I don't even know what, but it must be out here.

She's about to get married and be cheated on. And she’s the mistress—what lovely friendships one can save from high school!

He, on the other hand, doesn’t look at me. I can’t do anything without eye contact… "The window to the soul". For real.

He’ll have the most boring life in the world, but will never complain about it, and people will love him for it. Kudos!

He will open a restaurant and drive it into bankruptcy in a few years, hide in a foreign country, and leave his kids to deal with the debts. Unbelievable!

She’ll find out that she's pregnant a little too late and will have to raise the child alone.

Here's a doctor in ten years. Someone who'll be unemployed in four. And dead by suicide in half an hour. About to treat himself to one last meal as a farewell to the world.

A fast-food burger? Really, my friend? Come on! I cannot stand this!

Hello, my friend. Give me your arm. The last meal tastes the same as the hundreds before it.

You know what tastes different?

No, not freedom, silly. Freedom has no taste! Only a smell.

The first meal of the life you chose. That’s what tastes different. One building is as good as any other. It won't make any difference for anyone whether you jump off the roof of a fast food chain or a church's tower.

Can you feel it in the air, this smell? No? Let’s play a game.

Look me in the eye, hold my arms tight, and lean backwards.

Feel what it would be like.

That instant of total freedom you thought you’d have? It doesn’t exist.

You are still a prisoner of gravity, and you will feel it until the very end. And in that moment, the very last one, you will realize that no freedom is coming.

And then just "splat".

A sound without any dignity. It won't be your head breaking, just your legs and vertebrae. You’ll be left paralyzed, a prisoner inside your own body. Your loved ones will take care of you, there will be constant pain, and no way out.

You'll wonder why you didn’t try with pills or car exhaust, all the while the wife you couldn't love spoon feeds you and empties your colostomy bag after the meals.

And that splat will haunt you like a ghost, stuck in your ears like a stuttering tinnitus. Splat. Splat. Splat.

The choice is yours; make it consciously. Don’t wait to have everything ready, to gather the courage, to have your last meal. Either face it head-on or don’t do it at all.

You don't want to do it anymore? Then bite the air, what does it taste like? Goodbye, my friend. You will forget me like everybody else.

I turn around. He's not looking at me. I hope he'll be ok.

No.

Sorry... What?

Did he just... answer my thoughts?

I won't forget you.

I turn around. He's looking straight into my eyes. No shame, no sorrow. In fact... I just cannot get a read. For the first time in many years, I'm the one left speechless.