I’ve been wanting to have a drink today. No problem you say, what’s your poison? Oh I’m not fussy really, a Black Label or a Castle. Or an Amstel. And a pill or two. Just a few milligrams. Of codeine or diazapam or, for good measure both. Well that can’t be hard. Certainly not the codeine bit – what about an adcodol or myprodol? I suppose I could rustle up a valium or ativan too at a pinch.
Of course you know I can’t. In fact even, my imaginary sponsor might say, thinking about it too much is not a good idea. Because it’s never just one or two is it? Well, that’s not exactly true. Two or three beers at most and two adcodol and I’ll be fine. I’ll be able to write, do some art, read a bit then, later, sleep like a baby. I’ll probably even have those really vivid dreams just like I used to. Perhaps the ones where I flap my arms and start to fly.
On my way home I was trying to hold some quite delicate thoughts and emotions in my brain. So I could sit here and download them onto my laptop. Capture them, without killing them, for the sake of science. But I think they seeped out into the general noise and dirt of late evening ennui.
You asked if I were trying to protect you and I think I said that to protect our fragile intersubjective space I would have to protect you too. That to protect our relationship we have to protect ourselves and eachother. Because things are so much easier to break than they are to put back together. Said that the ephemeral things, the fragile things need to be protected the most. Even though the armies of chaos will win the war there is some dignity in the battle for coherence, for innocence. For beauty.
Perhaps I have become just a bit depressed. A bit oppressed by thoughts of cold dirty puddles, rusty benches, cancer growing quietly in a million oblivious bodies. And I’m seeing some really sad aspects of us. Of this space. This process. And I know you want to go there with me but I don’t want to infect the fragile infant space that we share. Because I have gone down that route and it never turns out well.
People are not drugs. Even though loneliness is the disease, company is not the cure. My loneliness could eat a fair sized stadium of bright and innocent well wishers and still wonder about what to choose for the main course. I can’t feel the heat and the light of your sun if I let the darkness out. If I let you in.
I have my imaginary sponsor to deal with that shit. He says sit with the feeling. So I’m sitting with it. And writing about it. And waiting for the cold tide of terror to ebb. Waiting for my little spot in the sun to come back so I can breathe a bit easier and do my bit to be a source of good instead of an ambassador of pain and decay.