Perspective

The human condition has us constantly face a struggle to accept how little we know. A unique perspective is enough to re-frame our complete understanding of our lives and the people in it. At any given moment there are countless ways in which we are missing the picture obvious to others.

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At a café with Mike, we got into it about whether people actually change.

Mike, the armchair philosopher, the enlightened cynic, laid down his law: People don’t change.

They just rearrange.

They cycle. They upgrade or downgrade, but the software stays the same.

I disagreed. I’ve seen it. The kind of change that rips a person apart and stitches something new together in its place. So I told him this story.

There’s this guy. Twenty-two. A model citizen type. Never stepped out of line. Not even once. You could program a machine to be more rebellious. His life? A clockwork routine of rule-following and self-loathing. A snake eating itself. Hating himself for the obedience, hating himself for the inability to stop.

A scholarship kid. Pre-law. Dad’s dream. He worked at a firm—entry-level. Just enough pay to buy a used car, a one-bedroom apartment, and a big-screen TV he never turned on.

His job? File. Proofread. Answer phones. Fetch coffee. Repeat.

Same cases. Same calls. Different names, same faces.

Until Eliza.

Thursday morning. Office manager says, “Meet Eliza, our new intern.”

Mike leans in. “Love interest? About time.”

Eliza. Red hair. Loud. Fast. A live wire with a short fuse.

This guy—he forgot to breathe when he saw her. Gasped. Out loud.

Eliza, of course, noticed.

That afternoon, she’s filing next to him. He’s avoiding eye contact. She talks anyway. He ignores.

“I’ll keep talking if you don’t start.”

Half-smirk. Eyebrow up. Why does this matter? he asks. Why do we need to interact beyond work?

“Just because,” she says.

She cracks him.

They talk. They keep talking. Talking turns into dating. Dating turns into drinking. Drinking turns into smoking. Then into partying. Then into missing work. The office manager’s done whispering.

Eliza says quit.

So he quits.

She quits too.

They move in together. Landlord hates Eliza, her mouth, her arguments. They get kicked out. The motel room life begins.

Six months of freefall. No bottom.

Weekends are blurs of sweat, pills, and fucks. Every moment with her is static shock. Electricity. Stimulants and depressants on a perfect rotation.

Then, the money runs dry.

And Eliza?

Eliza’s gone. Like she never existed.

Mike, wide-eyed. “Oh. Whoa.”

No address. No friends to call. Just gone.

And now what?

He tries to replace her. Cash burns fast—on girls, on drinks, on forgetting.

But forgetting doesn’t work.

He upgrades. White powder mountains. Doesn’t work.

Dealer offers something stronger. A tiny vial, clear liquid.

“Through your veins.”

So he does it.

Two weeks of mind-melting withdrawal from reality.

Months before he’s semi-functional. Just enough to hold shitty jobs, buy more poison, and keep his pulse in check.

I look at Mike. “This is still his life now.”

Mike nods. Processing. “I see.”

“So? People change, right?” I sip my fancy mocha latte, watching his face.

Mike leans forward. Smirks.

“Oh. Ohhhh. I get it. You think this is a story about a guy who lost everything?”

I blink. “Uh. Yeah?”

Mike shakes his head. “No, buddy. This is a story about a guy who’s addicted to letting other people call the shots.”

“First, it’s Daddy—law school, corporate drone life.”

“Then, it’s Eliza—sex, drugs, bad decisions.”

“Now, it’s the drugs. They’re in charge. They tell him what to do.”

Mike points a finger. “Nothing changed. He’s the same. He’s just following a different master.”

I haven’t spoken to Mike since.