“Many workshops later, little shrink, she would look back in wonder at the intensity with which she had felt the loss of the only relationship she had put her heart and soul into; the only one she had approached as an adult; one that she had wanted to write, not just scribble on.”
Sorry, little shrink. I know we've been sitting in silence for a long time. Or at least it seems like a long time. Really? Just five minutes? Relativity, I guess. Why do I feel a little distant from me today? As though I am sitting outside myself, wondering at the actions and thoughts and feelings of someone else? Odd. Very odd.
"Topmost in her mind, as the dirty tongue of the dragon pressed down against her lungs, were thoughts of the lies and deceit that went on and on and on. Why on earth should they worry her, though? It was over. She had accepted that. Why should it matter that the lies and deceit continued?
"From living a dream, yes, a dream, not reality, in which she thought she had finally responded to a call to 'find out what you want to do most in life - and do it', she now responded to a greater inner call that she had newly invented. 'Find out what you most need to do today - and do it - just for today. Leave tomorrow out of it.'
"Oblivion. Peace. The end of nothingness. Nothingness to nothingness from ashes to ash. Pushing up an ash tree might have more meaning. Not an option. Not for any reason more important than that attached to souls she knew would inhabit their bodies long after hers had quit this mortal frame. Nothing, really, can save your life. Not in the cosmic framework, anyhow. What exists is only possible if she brought it into existence. Beyond that, a mythical optimism, meaning that did not could not would not exist. Not unless there was something else that could hold onto the mythicism of Sisyphean origin. Meaning that could be summed up in yadda-yadda-yadda and la-la-la. Just a hop-step-jump from la-la-land. Effortless oblivion while the body the soul the warped-wefted minefield of a mind struck from within and without by the meaningless void into which it had fallen, perchance to sleep, to dream, to nightmare, to be lost in the labyrinth of voidness, voidity, void-world.
"He had called her prose-poetry-drama disturbing. Of course, it was. When calm is replaced by intense inner turmoil what else could it be. Even the turmoil had been carried away by the strong wind, gale-force, of the lies and deceit. Trust. Lost. Forever. Cannot be reclaimed from the sea of void. There would be a time to dissolve into the void with the faith that had been claimed by the sea, that had gone into the wind, that had perchance melted into the mist and fog of annihilation. Where do you find a little light in a black hole to guide you out of it? Where in the black hole can you look for life again? Where, indeed, do you find answers to unasked questions? Where do you voice a question you don't have the words for? How do you find meaning when the questions, unasked, unformed, unworded, unapplied, unconjugated, lie wasted like the leaves of the great trees you could look to for answers?
"Slowly she turns the now-too-loose ring on her finger, the one that seems ready to fall off at the slightest shake of the hand. Fragile and helpless it can't hold on to anything that will bring respite from undubbed questions undoubtedly waiting for a moment of weakness to bare their fangs and populate the shards of her life with bloodied remnants. The gore pops out once in a while shallowly buried in foggy waters that may or may not drown out the hard whispers of faithless uncertainty."
What is it, little shrink? Really? You want a voice in the narrative? But that would make it structurally deficient. You are supposed to listen. Say, it's only a paper moon, hanging over a cardboard sea, and it's only make believe coz there's no belief in me. See, that's structure. Perfect meter. If you were to enter my narrative, it would destroy the meter.
Focus on your breathing, Catsy. You know that brings your pulse down. Focus on this moment which is not going to let you get away. Focus on your word that you gave me. Your word has always counted for something. You said, I promise. Focus on that. This moment is the only one you can have, to live, to breathe, to do, to live, to think, to breathe, to do, to live, to breathe...
Yes. Breathe. I don't need a pulse monitor to know what it is. My heart is thunder in my ears, drumming, thrumming out sounds of the void. Did you know that the void is not silent? It is filled with thunder that thrummmmmms and throbbbbbs and drummmms. Till my eardrums explode from inside and my head explodes and implodes.
Focus on your in-breath, your out-breath. Hold. Focus on this moment in which nothing bad is going to happen to you. Leave the future out of it. Focus on your breath.
Stop. Stop. You are destroying my narrative. Mine. Mine. All mine. Yadda-yadda-yadda.
"How often he had said that. How often had he meant it? He threw her away in the space of five minutes. She was depressed. Check. She was. She was in terrorised turmoil. Check. She was. Who put her in? Little Tommy thin. Who pulled her out? Not little Tommy stout. He was out with someone else when the void swallowed her whole. Who killed cock Robin? Not I, said little Tommy thin. Nor I, said little Tommy stout. We were both out shopping, having dinner, having coffee. Johnny Johnny telling a lie? No papa. Open your mouth. Yadda-yadda-yadda.
"A minecraft castle. That's all the world is. You can destroy it with the clickety clack of fingers on keys. With a snap of your fingers. With a word when you say 'no, I can't do this anymore'. You can dump someone in a garbage bin with just a flick of your wrist. A bin inhabited by a dragon with foul stinking breath. It is that easy. True. It is. You can demean, devalue, destroy what was precious. What kept you out of your void. What held out its arms so you could climb out. What sat next to you inside the void and did not leave till you were out. What stroked your hair and sat calm and patient when you went into the void holding on firmly and not letting it collapse around you. You can throw it away when the void tries to swallow you. A minecraft castle. Only make believe. A cardboard sky. A muslin tree. Only make believe."
But, little shrink, I scratch the pitiless walls to clamber out. With broken nails I scratch them to let me out. The wind chimes don't chime inside. They bring no peace with their silence. But I can't let them out of my sight. They sway gently in the breeze as I think longingly about what it might mean to have meaning again.
No, it cannot come from the other souls attached to my destiny.
No, it cannot come from the work I do.
No, it cannot come from other people who love me, whose hearts hurt with mine, who live inside my void with me so I don't feel alone in it.
No, it cannot come from anything that I haven't created myself.
No, it cannot come from a rope as fragile as hope.
Hell is indeed other people. But hell is also one's warped-and-wefted web-spun mind with a fractured imagination that cannot see beyond the void.
Meaning can only come if it is invented again. In the little things.
In a game of basketball hard-played, well-fought, meaningless except for the ephemeral joy of a moment of chasing a ball.
In a moment of gently calming the man-eating dog much maligned but showing no signs of baring its teeth.
In a moment of chasing a shuttle swept away by the breeze.
In a moment of stillness, of adding words to a narrative on hopelessness.
In a moment, little shrink, of finally, at the end of a long, tough day, putting one's head on a pillow and wishing for life-inducing sleep, knowing that tomorrow is another day and may have some chance of an invented meaning.
Sorry, little shrink. I know we've been sitting in silence for a long time. Or at least it seems like a long time. Really? Just five minutes? Relativity, I guess. Why do I feel a little distant from me today? As though I am sitting outside myself, wondering at the actions and thoughts and feelings of someone else? Odd. Very odd.
"Topmost in her mind, as the dirty tongue of the dragon pressed down against her lungs, were thoughts of the lies and deceit that went on and on and on. Why on earth should they worry her, though? It was over. She had accepted that. Why should it matter that the lies and deceit continued?
"From living a dream, yes, a dream, not reality, in which she thought she had finally responded to a call to 'find out what you want to do most in life - and do it', she now responded to a greater inner call that she had newly invented. 'Find out what you most need to do today - and do it - just for today. Leave tomorrow out of it.'
"Oblivion. Peace. The end of nothingness. Nothingness to nothingness from ashes to ash. Pushing up an ash tree might have more meaning. Not an option. Not for any reason more important than that attached to souls she knew would inhabit their bodies long after hers had quit this mortal frame. Nothing, really, can save your life. Not in the cosmic framework, anyhow. What exists is only possible if she brought it into existence. Beyond that, a mythical optimism, meaning that did not could not would not exist. Not unless there was something else that could hold onto the mythicism of Sisyphean origin. Meaning that could be summed up in yadda-yadda-yadda and la-la-la. Just a hop-step-jump from la-la-land. Effortless oblivion while the body the soul the warped-wefted minefield of a mind struck from within and without by the meaningless void into which it had fallen, perchance to sleep, to dream, to nightmare, to be lost in the labyrinth of voidness, voidity, void-world.
"He had called her prose-poetry-drama disturbing. Of course, it was. When calm is replaced by intense inner turmoil what else could it be. Even the turmoil had been carried away by the strong wind, gale-force, of the lies and deceit. Trust. Lost. Forever. Cannot be reclaimed from the sea of void. There would be a time to dissolve into the void with the faith that had been claimed by the sea, that had gone into the wind, that had perchance melted into the mist and fog of annihilation. Where do you find a little light in a black hole to guide you out of it? Where in the black hole can you look for life again? Where, indeed, do you find answers to unasked questions? Where do you voice a question you don't have the words for? How do you find meaning when the questions, unasked, unformed, unworded, unapplied, unconjugated, lie wasted like the leaves of the great trees you could look to for answers?
"Slowly she turns the now-too-loose ring on her finger, the one that seems ready to fall off at the slightest shake of the hand. Fragile and helpless it can't hold on to anything that will bring respite from undubbed questions undoubtedly waiting for a moment of weakness to bare their fangs and populate the shards of her life with bloodied remnants. The gore pops out once in a while shallowly buried in foggy waters that may or may not drown out the hard whispers of faithless uncertainty."
What is it, little shrink? Really? You want a voice in the narrative? But that would make it structurally deficient. You are supposed to listen. Say, it's only a paper moon, hanging over a cardboard sea, and it's only make believe coz there's no belief in me. See, that's structure. Perfect meter. If you were to enter my narrative, it would destroy the meter.
Focus on your breathing, Catsy. You know that brings your pulse down. Focus on this moment which is not going to let you get away. Focus on your word that you gave me. Your word has always counted for something. You said, I promise. Focus on that. This moment is the only one you can have, to live, to breathe, to do, to live, to think, to breathe, to do, to live, to breathe...
Yes. Breathe. I don't need a pulse monitor to know what it is. My heart is thunder in my ears, drumming, thrumming out sounds of the void. Did you know that the void is not silent? It is filled with thunder that thrummmmmms and throbbbbbs and drummmms. Till my eardrums explode from inside and my head explodes and implodes.
Focus on your in-breath, your out-breath. Hold. Focus on this moment in which nothing bad is going to happen to you. Leave the future out of it. Focus on your breath.
Stop. Stop. You are destroying my narrative. Mine. Mine. All mine. Yadda-yadda-yadda.
"How often he had said that. How often had he meant it? He threw her away in the space of five minutes. She was depressed. Check. She was. She was in terrorised turmoil. Check. She was. Who put her in? Little Tommy thin. Who pulled her out? Not little Tommy stout. He was out with someone else when the void swallowed her whole. Who killed cock Robin? Not I, said little Tommy thin. Nor I, said little Tommy stout. We were both out shopping, having dinner, having coffee. Johnny Johnny telling a lie? No papa. Open your mouth. Yadda-yadda-yadda.
"A minecraft castle. That's all the world is. You can destroy it with the clickety clack of fingers on keys. With a snap of your fingers. With a word when you say 'no, I can't do this anymore'. You can dump someone in a garbage bin with just a flick of your wrist. A bin inhabited by a dragon with foul stinking breath. It is that easy. True. It is. You can demean, devalue, destroy what was precious. What kept you out of your void. What held out its arms so you could climb out. What sat next to you inside the void and did not leave till you were out. What stroked your hair and sat calm and patient when you went into the void holding on firmly and not letting it collapse around you. You can throw it away when the void tries to swallow you. A minecraft castle. Only make believe. A cardboard sky. A muslin tree. Only make believe."
But, little shrink, I scratch the pitiless walls to clamber out. With broken nails I scratch them to let me out. The wind chimes don't chime inside. They bring no peace with their silence. But I can't let them out of my sight. They sway gently in the breeze as I think longingly about what it might mean to have meaning again.
No, it cannot come from the other souls attached to my destiny.
No, it cannot come from the work I do.
No, it cannot come from other people who love me, whose hearts hurt with mine, who live inside my void with me so I don't feel alone in it.
No, it cannot come from anything that I haven't created myself.
No, it cannot come from a rope as fragile as hope.
Hell is indeed other people. But hell is also one's warped-and-wefted web-spun mind with a fractured imagination that cannot see beyond the void.
Meaning can only come if it is invented again. In the little things.
In a game of basketball hard-played, well-fought, meaningless except for the ephemeral joy of a moment of chasing a ball.
In a moment of gently calming the man-eating dog much maligned but showing no signs of baring its teeth.
In a moment of chasing a shuttle swept away by the breeze.
In a moment of stillness, of adding words to a narrative on hopelessness.
In a moment, little shrink, of finally, at the end of a long, tough day, putting one's head on a pillow and wishing for life-inducing sleep, knowing that tomorrow is another day and may have some chance of an invented meaning.
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