( So, here's the thing: Jack's friendships are weird. They tend to happen during intense moments, or they stem from his blog over-sharing, or when the world is exploding. Every hour is the midnight hour for a man who doesn't sleep, for a man who spills the details of his life on a public blog to readers he does not and cannot know. It's complicated. He's bad at people, he's bad at one-on-one dynamics, they're all or nothing for him outside of the mundane moments of a gas station worker's routine life. Shit's fucked up. It is what it is, and here they are. Sabine is gone. He's still recovering from that. It's recent. Everything is-
Weird. Everything is weird. Jack is Weird, Thorne is Weird, life is Weird. He's meeting Carmy during a weird time in his life, something something Edward Norton Brad Pitt Fight Club soap. Fuck. He doesn't fucking know. He's tired. He's grieving. He hasn't slept, he hasn't eaten, and now-- this, this is happening. So.
Oversharing.
Rock bottom? No, not exactly. Rock bottom happened a few years back, in reality, with a gun in his hand and the barrel in his mouth. Rock bottom was the miraculous piece of pocket lint that stopped the firing mechanism. Reality was the absolutely crushing, psyche rending sense of guilt that immediately followed it. But that's- too much, even for him. Too much to ever share with a stranger, and so instead he just shrugs one vacant, noncommittal shoulder.
At length, he just asks: )
Is there really an after?
( Or is it always the present? Is it always just... more present, and finding ways to cope with that as the present continues to perpetually demand to exist, in your face, with no respite and no consideration of the past? )
tw: canonical suicidal ideation.
Weird. Everything is weird. Jack is Weird, Thorne is Weird, life is Weird. He's meeting Carmy during a weird time in his life, something something Edward Norton Brad Pitt Fight Club soap. Fuck. He doesn't fucking know. He's tired. He's grieving. He hasn't slept, he hasn't eaten, and now-- this, this is happening. So.
Oversharing.
Rock bottom? No, not exactly. Rock bottom happened a few years back, in reality, with a gun in his hand and the barrel in his mouth. Rock bottom was the miraculous piece of pocket lint that stopped the firing mechanism. Reality was the absolutely crushing, psyche rending sense of guilt that immediately followed it. But that's- too much, even for him. Too much to ever share with a stranger, and so instead he just shrugs one vacant, noncommittal shoulder.
At length, he just asks: )
Is there really an after?
( Or is it always the present? Is it always just... more present, and finding ways to cope with that as the present continues to perpetually demand to exist, in your face, with no respite and no consideration of the past? )