I’m not going to repeat myself—there might not be time. Time is a slippery, elusive thing, the kind that coils around you when you least expect it, squeezing tight until all the air is gone. You might try to be a peace-loving, god-fearing citizen, thinking if you keep your head down, you’ll make it through. But somebody, somewhere, is bound to fuck that up. You could be reaching for a box of cereal, hand outstretched in some sterile supermarket aisle, when suddenly the ground beneath you shifts, and you’re knee-deep in a flood of chaos, drenched in blood and mustard, feeling the weight of a hundred bad decisions that aren’t even yours.
Or maybe you’re ladling out soup at a homeless shelter, feeling the warmth of good deeds done, only to feel a blade kiss your neck, wielded by the very soul you tried to save. Desperation has a funny way of showing gratitude, doesn’t it? And just like that, the comfort of everyday life cracks, peeling back to reveal the rotting, worm-infested underbelly of existence. You think you know fear? Wait until the light starts to dim, until your own breath sounds like a stranger’s in your ears.
But what if—what if we have all the time in the world? Would you still find time for Harrold John—the miserable, privileged fool with a knack for stumbling into doom? The king of awkward embarrassments and situations from which there is no clean exit. Harrold, who rides this wretched rollercoaster not because he chose to, but because there was nowhere else to go, no other ticket to buy. The track is long, the bends are sharp, and the end? Well, that’s just another drop into the unknown. Who holds the scorecards at the end of this wild ride? There must be someone, someone with a ledger, and maybe—just maybe—you could find a way to cheat, to bribe, to beg your way to a better conclusion.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You might feel it before you see it—a strike to the head, a dizzying tumble as you meet the ground, gravel biting into your skin. Nausea, sharp and cold, crawls up from your gut, twisting its way up your spine. You might feel despair, a deep, black emptiness that spreads through you like ink in water, even as the curious gather, wide-eyed, to witness your misery.
And there it will be—the tunnel, dark and endless, with a light at the far end. A pinprick of hope, a tiny beacon promising relief. And for a second—just a brief, fleeting second—you’ll think things might get better. That you might just make it out of this. But as you inch closer, as your vision sharpens, reality will slap you hard. You’ll blink, and curse your lashes for being too far apart, and wonder—does anyone even hear me? Or is this the silence that waits for us all?
