Do you know that very particular situation when a thing has been broken for a long, long time and you have actually forgotten a time it wasn’t broken and so it’s just overlooked the way we always overlook things when they have been broken for a long, long time and that thing is actually you? You know that one, right? We all know that one I’m afraid. Isn’t that the truth? Much as it hurts us to admit it, we all know that one. That’s the story of our lives right there.
I wished to be reminded of my greatness, of which no one else knew, and so I began work immediately on an epic poem, detailing the same. It was to be a poem like no other. I would publish it under an obscure pseudonym and pay for it myself – certainly no one else would publish it. My eyes were clear and my mind was no longer twisted – no longer as twisted as it had been, at any rate. Relatively untwisted, let us say. Let us venture to say that. Although who knows what depths might be concealed in that little word ‘relatively’? ‘Relative to what exactly?’ you might ask and there lies the problem because I have nothing else to go on, only my own twisted logic…
I had negotiated a truce with the dark spirits that had me hemmed in but I was soon to learn that it was a truce which existed only in my own imagination. I had overestimated my own bargaining power and the dark spirits that beset me were more than happy to encourage me in my ridiculous naïveté. Bargaining from a position of weakness, I suppose you could call that. The evil spirits were my masters and always had been, incapable though I was at the time of understanding this. I existed only as their plaything and – looking back to that moment – I can now see that they were tiring of their sport.
Full of the intoxication of arrogance I challenged my enemies to a psychic dual. ‘Show me what you’ve got, you pathetic putrid arse-maggots.’ I told them. ‘If you want to tangle with me then you’re more than welcome…’ I was a veteran of the Psychic Wars after all, and I had endured many things. I had survived if nothing else, and that in itself is no small thing. I had survived, but had I really? Does this count as surviving or does it count as something else? Was my supposed survival no more than an hallucination that had been permitted me as some form of cruel mockery? The hallucination of survival, when in fact there was no such thing. When in fact there was none. And now this poor hallucination – which is all that I had left – was very shortly to be taken away from me.
I was trapped in my mind of course. That’s the usual problem. That’s the perennial problem, the problem that keeps on cropping up. What other problem is there, now that I come to mention it? The old, old problem. The usual problem. I was fleeing from one place of comfort to another and every place I found proved to contain torments as yet undreamt of. ‘Is this my destiny’, I sometimes ask myself, ‘to flee from one place of comfort to another, only to find that each refuge I find contains torment beyond imagining?’ Often indeed I ask myself this question. Often indeed I ask it and the answer is always the same.