Rice paper

I’m not doing great. The world’s a scary place and right now I keep thinking of the kids, keep getting scared for them, for the future, their future.

Being scared don’t do anything, does it? Silly Phil.

Nor does ignoring it all. But at least ignoring it all you get to live a happy life. Get to live a life.

And I think too much about these things, get to thinking what’s the point, get to thinking those same old dark dark thoughts. Who wants to watch the world burn, after all?

I shouldn’t think those dark dark thoughts, I’m told.

How is it life can be so brutally real yet so rice paper thin?

In the terrible dawn of grief you see the world stripped bare of stories, stripped bare of distractions and you want to laugh, or scream, or beat your fists against the chests of other humans and howl that it’s all dust and whispers and all these lives we build up and tear down and worry and fear and hope over are just stories we tell ourselves to distract from the gaping truth that we’re all just words spoken briefly by the world then lost with breath on the wind.

The world at once so brutally real yet rice paper thin.

I worry over things I can’t change, I’ll never be able to change, watching a humanity careening closer and closer to environmental ruin and social destruction and I worry, I worry over the future my future, their future. Silly Phil.

Sometimes I can blot it out, it takes effort and a few magic tricks but sometimes I can, but not right now. Not as the world looks set to burn.

I’m not doing great. The world’s a scary place right now and I’m not doing great.

Beaten

Phil wakes up.

His body lies in bed a while, eyes gazing at the door, the crumple of the pillow partly obscuring their view. The door is white. The pillowcase is white.

Phil wakes up.

His body lies in bed a while, breathing, eyes gently weeping. The breath is black. The tears are black.

Phil wakes up. Every morning.

Every morning Phil wishes he hadn’t.

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lightprincess

Fall

2008.

You don’t realise how ill you are, when you’re really ill; it’s the trick the devil pulls to convince you he doesn’t exist. You don’t realise how ill you are when you’re really ill, but at first…

At first you feel the ground slip, tremors. A low, low rumbling , a trembling. At first you know the world is lurching.

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Prologue II

I knew it was the paroxetine; I knew, but I didn’t want to admit that, because then the bliss could leave at any moment, the childlike and childish joy in my heart would be contingent on this daily capsule. I knew it was the paroxetine, but secretly hoped that I’d got plugged directly into the heart of God. That it would be as I felt; eternal, oceanic, forever and ever.

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