Category Archives: Writing

‘And then it came back, when some time had passed, the voice that told me, You made yourself ill, you let yourself go. I’ve let myself go, I said, you’re right. You don’t know the half of it, it said. You let yourself go and you paid for it and now you have to climb back and you don’t know how to start without my telling you. And you won’t listen.’

‘It was the first thought I woke up to at night. It seemed perfect and logical. Almost comforting. I narrowed it down to a train or truck, though I disliked the idea of implicating others. In any case I was a coward, and I often pictured myself holding back at the last moment, my life as a hesitation before death.’

‘In the days that followed I felt as if I were floating above the hole, suspended in air. The ground had disappeared, only the hole remained below me, ready for me to drop back down at the least disturbance. My words meant next to nothing. They were themselves part of the air, a congregation of vapours.’

‘It was as if something in me took all that was new and made it old. Or as if God lowered his lids on all I saw and withdrew. Things died before they grew. No one could live like that, so flat for so long. But here and there I saw new things.’

‘I’d lie in bed thinking of ways to die. So this is what it comes to, I thought, I must be ill. Almost a relief, I thought, to be ill, indisputably ill. Ill. I repeated the word as I imagined ways to die. This is what it comes to, I thought, something in me is ill and it’s taken me over and when that happens this is what happens, this is what it comes to. It’s indisputable, just look. Ill in a dark room. Almost a relief, to have only one thought, one sincere wish. Ill, I must be ill. Almost easier, I thought, now that you’re cornered. Easier to be taken out of yourself, out of all fakery for once, to be ill, indisputably ill. It’s an illness, you see, I’m ill. There’s the death drive and there’s the life force and the life force is weak, the life force is dying, it’s turned into the death drive because I’m ill and now I know I wasn’t lying because all I want is to die and that’s because I’m ill, do you see, I’m ill and I’ve always been more or less ill, this is what it comes down to, it’s fitting and logical. Ill. It’s grown inside me, fed on me and now it’s come to this, now it’s ready, death has ripened in me. It’s invisible, it grows in the dark, in obscurity, but now you can see the fruit of its work, you thought I was lying, now you must see I wasn’t. It grows in the dark until it comes to this and look at me now, full of the will to death, full of the opposite of will, this is what it looks like, now do you see it? It’s an illness, there’s a name for it. Almost a relief that it’s here, that it’s taken me, indisputably, that they were wrong and I was right. See for yourself. Ill. Can you see it? Almost, you can almost see it. It’s indisputable, just look at me, lying in bed thinking of ways to die.’

‘After those days it was as if I’d been razed. I couldn’t think or talk in the same way. I couldn’t go back, but I was still in the same place, picking for new growths in the rubble. And the old mist still hung over things. What could replace all I’d known? I didn’t even know what words to use, my own seemed part of the mist, or the rubble. But I saw living things here and there, strong and brief.’

‘After those days it was as if I’d been razed. I couldn’t think or talk in the same way. I couldn’t go back, but I was still in the same place, picking for new growths in the rubble. And the old mist still hung over things. What could replace all I’d known? I didn’t even know what words to use, my own seemed part of the mist, or the rubble. But I saw living things here and there, strong and brief.’

‘On some of those days it came down to a basic struggle between life and death. I felt out of control, or controlled by something beyond my control. Something in me was trying to kill me, something else was trying to live. I was given over at last, taken out of all pretence, it was almost a relief.’

‘One morning I awoke and came blinking out of the hole. New again, almost dazzled, I thought of ways to go until again there seemed no way to go. It was still a question of waiting. So I started over, waiting.’

‘The only solution I found was to talk to you. Another you, not the you I lost, but the you I’m always losing. My only way out of the hole was to talk myself into a new wider loss.’