I am a ghost.
“They worked silently together, almost as if they were collectively dreaming.”
He was smoking a cigarette outside the back doors.
“You seem happier than before,” I told him.
“I am, it’s true.”
But I missed seeing him in his mania, refusing to take the subway from Manning and Bloor to Yonge and Bloor because of his desperation to see her. He’d take a taxi instead.
“My eyes are failing me…” Said the character in a book who spent his youth looking at all of the paintings of the Western canon.
What is the illusion of happiness?
“Perhaps,” he said, “your father never had the opportunity to really learn about himself. I mean, to reach his depths. And to discover how horrible he could be. ”
“Are you saying that’s why he was so insufferable?”
Some of us are able to imagine their own innocence… Like Britney Spears spelling “cinamin” on her grocery lists over and over again. A delusion, a dream.
Maybe some of us feel repulsed by belonging, through no fault of our own. And hate ourselves for feeling that way, even fleetingly. We would maybe prefer to dream a party than to attend one.
I’m always surprised by the generosity of my friends.
“He felt assaulted from every side, like he was facing a horde of bees.”
“My father never slept deeply. In the morning he looked the same as he had the night before. Like he was suspended, worn thin by living.”
The speaker’s jacket is torn on one of the sleeves.
“I can’t remember a time when my father didn’t have that look on his face.”
“The look they say she put in him. The mark of her.”
A man talks to his cat. “Of course I loved her. She was the only one that doubted that. But sometimes love isn’t enough…”
He wonders who he is really speaking to. We discount happiness and fetishize unhappiness.
In his sleep he dreams that he is facing uncanny evil on an island in the Antarctic, the furthest human settlement ever established. Buried in mountains and in snow.