Monday, 24 August 2009


His movements, speech and manner had the weight and assurance of a vainglorious narcissist. I studied him absently, feeling mild repulsion.
I had to acknowledge that the source of this repulsion was some form of recognition and association.

A slate sky.
"Let's see the patient."
He had been diagnosed with decidophobia, an extreme aversion to making any kind of decision.
The first time I had met him he had a haunted look in his eye and had fidgeted excessively. Now he appeared lethargic and his eyes were clouded. He was clearly heavily medicated.
"Everything's fucked," he told me. "I'm a ghost. I try to speak to people but they just look right through me. They are amused or else unnerved or else annoyed by my presence."
I nodded sympathetically.
"How do you feel you are responding to the treatment?" I queried. His mouth warped into a slack grin.
"I love these medicines. I love the ritual of daily medication. I adore sedation, tranquility. These chemicals enable me to achieve these states. Clarity, serenity, beautifully guiltless listlessness and quiet nihilism."
"Would you agree that ultimately you are an exceptionally vain man?"
"Yes, it's obvious. But there are worse traits than vanity. Gratuitous cruelty for example."
I had to concede that point. But still my opinion that this man was a turgid little shit remained undiminished.

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