I like roller coasters. I like the thrill they give me. I am in-between: I am dying, but I am not; my body is falling apart, but it isn’t; I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but I am sane. I feel the blood run through my head, the rush of adrenaline, my heart racing, ready to pop out of my throat any minute.
I scream out of fear, but without fear the thrill is meaningless.
I get scared and regret getting on the ride after I was locked to my seat— It was too late to run away then. The sky is pressing on your chest, the sun hurting your eye. Still, you can’t see what’s ahead of you. You see the ascending railway gradually disappear. All of the sudden you see nothing. The next thing you know, you know nothing.
Scary as it is, I always end up having a good time. The thrill only gets me to ask for more — the fear is worth it, and the thrill becomes an addiction.
The gap between fear and thrill can only be bridged by that safety lock on the seat. You don’t get to think; you have no choice but to go forward, stare at the sky until it crashes, have the near-death experience and scream. If something could pin me down when I’m backing out of something I’m uncertain of, my life could be completely different. I seldom take risks in my life. But on a roller coaster, I no longer play safe.
Living on the verge of danger is exciting. You are on the verge of knowing and not knowing. The thrill of being in-between comes from the fear of uncertainty, something we don’t choose the face until forced to. Roller coasters compel us to face uncertainty: you don’t know when you will fall, spin, or face down and see everything so small and suffocating, and there is something thrilling about that.
Life is not a thriller, yet it’s not worth living without a little bit of danger.