Edwas, you and I are walking in
long strides off a short concourse.
We’ve got differences to discuss.
I went to Dr. Seliger to admit you.
In actuality, I went to admit that
you existed. I went to admit that
you lay heavy on weak shoulders.
I went to admit that when you go
to your job, no one knows you are
there. I went to admit that, quite
often, I make up stories involving
our wildest times. I went to admit
that each sentence is garbled, the
garbage is gathering, gadflies are
god-awful this time of year, god
almighty damn it. I went to admit
that you are seen and seen well in
the swollen lights of blind ambition,
seen in scenes, seen in the sheer
pile and welter of information that
builds, seen in a building’s ceiling,
seen, seen, seen. You are in each
conversation with the wretched of
families and friends, each swell of
guitar, each passive intrusion into
a life better off without me being
involved, each fork stabbing into a
salad. I went to admit that you
demand of me details, deride my
sense of clarity, mix my drinks as
I slowly alter my state. I went to
admit I am never rid of you, but
always ready to be. I went to want
to admit that I just want rest, but
most of me is not ready for you
to be admitted. I went to admit
that you are a figment of my ever-
insatiable imagination. I went to
admit that I am lonely, depraved—
and quite surprised to be affected.
I went to admit that you are made-
up; an excuse for the meandering
punchlines and allayed weights of
consciousness. I went to admit my
sins and to see Seliger flesh the
wounds of indignation. I went to
admit the obsessions I am wont to
obfuscate. I went to thrash about
and drive you out, you cancerous
cur, you malignant malfeasance, you
adamant apparition, you, you, you,
you numbered neuron (a prisoner
of my alcohol-addled brain). I went
to destroy you. I went to admit the
need for your destruction, Edwas.
I went to need to have to be one
who needs you destroyed. I
went. I am having had went, to be
going. I went to admit your being,
for all intents and purposes, the
physical manifestation of depression.
I went with all the best intentions
for me. Then, I got drunk.