I won’t, of course. I’m not about to start walking the
streets of our local market towns wearing a board which says The End of the World is Nigh. I still retain sufficient of a rational
faculty to feel reasonably confident that the whole thing is merely the inner
rambling of a mildly disordered mind brought about by… what? The lack of a
focus? The lack of the lady? The lack of connection with my species? The lack
of a particular quest which has driven me since the age of twelve and which is no
longer in my power to pursue?
I could go on. A lot of things are lacking now, and still
the wind mocks.
I remember as a kid watching an old black and white movie
called On the Beach adapted from the
novel by Neville Shute. It made a big impression on me, especially the scene
where the young Australian naval lieutenant is trying to persuade his wife to
give the suicide pill to their baby. He explains that they must make sure the
baby is dead before they take their own pill, and then the rest will be easy: a
quiet cup of tea, the swallowing of a little pill, and it will all be over. His
wife is reluctant and he has no option but to allow her a further period of
grace since the cloud of nuclear fallout isn’t due to reach Australia for
another few days. Towards the end of the film she walks into their living room
and says ‘I’m ready for that cup of tea now’, when what she really means is
‘I’m ready to take the pill.’
Maybe that’s what I should do – take a pill I mean. I’m sure
there must be lots and lots of little pills designed to bring blessed relief to
mildly disordered minds (and make a few people blessedly rich in the process.)
But if I did, would I still be able to write a mildly
distracting little opus like this to grant me a modicum of amusement in an
empty hour? And can I be sure that my mind isn’t perfectly well ordered anyway?
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