A voice whispering, not into my ears but into my mind. Whomever is behind the voice is relating a bitter fact (it is presented as one) about my life. The thought enters my mind and instantly makes a home, among self-loathing, guilt, disgust, depression, and then goes deeper to find dark thoughts of suicide, and even murder. Specific memories related to these general feelings begin to percolate to the surface, where the whispered idea will find an ally in the simple goal of becoming the predominate thought in my mind.
The whispered fact is but 10 words, and it is a fact about life, death, and religion. Mel Gibson once said that, "Life is a shit sandwich for everyone, the only difference is some get more bread." But beyond the shit sandwich that is life, there are some mighty fine moments sprinkled about. Falling in love has to be among the greatest and most enjoyable experiences in the universe. And how easily does such a wonderful thing turn to unspeakable pain. The heat that kept you warm suddenly burns you horribly.
She said to me loudly near the Park St. T stop, "Thankfully, life is fragile and it should be over soon!" loudly because there was a band playing nearby, we were at some sort of protest. We were together for a month before breaking up, and I spent my weekends at her place in Revere, very close to the sea. It was autumn. The smell of the see helped us create the illusion that we were hidden away, and it was seemingly always overcast. We were celebrating surrender and welcoming death, which is wrong when one is only 26. She was even younger. It was my idea to break up, but she was not surprised or hurt. For various reasons, it was a hard relationship on both of us. Two dead ends trying to find a way out. We were both carrying a torch for someone else, as they say.
There were two phone conversations after that day on Beacon Hill, but that was the very last time I saw her, saying that. Such nihilism. A variation on that question that can't be put into words has soaked into my brain and distracted my mind. No self defense exists against depression or isolation or whatever other crazy shit I feel.
Nothing but the void.
I will survive this bout of melancholy. This is my time of year, after all. The cold weather cools my brain, like a cold snap makes the local dump less fetid. Or something. And the occasional smell of the ocean that reaches my flat is rife with a million different meanings and feelings, I have but to choose.
A lack of enthusiasm for life is embarrassing to a thinking person, as life is rare, and at worst interesting. It makes sense to live life to the fullest, and all that shit, until the big finale. The "Big Finale" for most of us is a heart attack, but cancer gets a lot of us, too. Accidents are statistically less common, but still it's a good chance you'll die in one.
Anyway, I have trouble keeping my eye off the void, of not thinking of what that girl said almost 10 years ago this fall. And life is easy for me, relatively, compared to most human beings. Even so, there is so much pain and fear and anxiety and guilt. And everything beautiful, like music and romantic love, will end one day, never to be experiences or appreciated again. I'm trying to keep that thought from ruining my enjoyment of living, and I've been successful. Love is perhaps the very best thing, and Tchaikovsky's violin concerto is a mighty fine group of sounds.
Just yesterday we found out that the House of Four Cats will be moving, about 300 yards south-west. It will be a lovely new flat with all sorts of modern conveniences, like a "toilet" or "seat of ease" as it's called elsewhere. Also, a device that allows you to shower your body with water, thus cleaning it and making it less offensive to others. Also, electric lights, a new stove and a state-of-the-art doorbell. When you press it, Die Internationale plays.
November 19th Oh, fuck!