I don't really remembr the plot; but I remember the atmosphere. It's something I want to return to when I'm really down.
It is as if there is a blanket covering me, and I'm too tired to lift it up or crawl out.
In p.99, I read this:
From the chair where I'm sitting I can see the letter box. It's the last entrance that the world hasn't tried to force its way through. Now a long strip of grey cardboard is pushed through it. There's writing on it. I let it lie there for a while. But it's hard to ignore a message that's almost a metre long.
"Anything is better than suicide," it says. That's what it's supposed to say, anyway. He has managed to include two or three spelling mistakes in the brief text.
I was on a 260X bus when I read it. As usual, I took a window seat. My reflection was on the window. I saw myself, wearing a hat which earned me the nickname "Czarina", and tears were rolling down.
Anything is better than suicide. Are you sure?
The sad thing didn't come from my being depressed. Its source came from my knowing that this depression would be gone, sooner or later; but then it would always come back. It's part of me.
I don't really mind dealing with it. It's my friend, foe, companion. I have had it for so long that sometimes I just don't notice it. But when it quietly creeps to the surface, when I notice that something's wrong, I'm already quite deep in this black hole. Sometimes, I just don't have the strength to get out. So, why not just call it a day?
The unbearable lightness of being; what's unbearable might well be the part about being.
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