I don’t know why, something was just in the air I guess. The fragile thread of reason seemed to have unraveled freeing the ghostly minions of failure; they threw open my portfolio of disasters and scattered my pages around me like fallen tombstones in my graveyard of dreams.
It was like that scene in Dumbo when he got drunk and hallucinated pink elephants singing macabrely. Only instead of pink elephants it was my memories; every time I cried, or was struck, or was left alone, but worst of all – every time I was embarrassed – every time I behaved like an arsehole. Those memories gathered in procession around me trumpeting ‘arsehole’ and with every blast I shrank a little till they towered above me and I dwindled into insignificance. Embarrassment is a killer – I wonder how many people have actually died of embarrassment.
Selective memory is a godsend, but my selective mechanism failed me and all at once I just fell apart, my whole flimsy house of cards came tumbling down. I tore like a wet paper sack and all my secret secrets fell out onto the floor. There was no place left to hide them – no way to avert my gaze. I sat there in dread fascination as the whole farcical comedy of errors played out before my eyes and I puked from deep inside my soul. I cried until my eyes bled and still the show went on.
For a while there I lacked invention. I lost control. I had no understanding of magic - a punishable offense. But I got it back. You never truly have it until you have lost it. You never truly have it until you lose it and win it back. Some never do. It’s like writing. Writing is not an escape from reality, but an attempt to mold reality. In this respect we are all of us works of fiction – the reality is just too much to bear.