Time for a bit of dying, he thought.
He’d generally push it to the side, all the way to the end. But it would always come back, like a pet that doesn’t want to go outside, and curl around his ankles.
So, for a change, that evening, when things turned to their familiar strangeness, he lay back in the bath and sank down, among the bubbles. Nothing would get better, he knew that very clearly. The crisscross-framed window ahead made floating diamonds ripple above his tummy, small faint cloud-shadows hung an inch or so below. He watched them. Watched with them, into them, from their start to their finish, right to their limits. Died with them. Then there was the sound of rain outside. He died with that sound too. Ended with it. Then the car wheels swishing by. He stayed with them, kept them company as far as he could hear, and as they passed, so he passed. Then his wife and child across the hallway. Their laughs and lives trapped forever inside the bell jar of that day.
Living is so overrated, he thought. Remembering to continue, remembering to survive, struggling to make linkages between spells of being.
Because nothing around him was going places, had better things in mind, ambitions beyond him.
Nothing in his bright glass could be lifted up and out, carried over, could get across.
Living was always missing the point.
Time for a bit of dying.