Explosions in the wings

Oh damn, but the world now is too sad. He means the political world, I guess, the anguish of those caught up beyond choice in suicide bomb attacks, but also rampant infections, not to mention the spiralling effects of climate change. Yet he also has in mind the conversation he's also had today with a mystified young man and his domineering father. Should he have insisted the father absent himself? The day started - and that's not unusual with him roaring expletives at passing motor traffic during his daily run.

The world is too sad means it is all getting beyond my comprehension. It means let me alone, relieve me of this burden of fellow feeling. It means I fear, or it means I am not sure if I fear more for others or myself. What is a self anyway? He has been isolated for too long, but like a tree, he carries multitudes inside him. He is the multitude, he corrects himself.

He wants to anaesthetise himself with a howl of rage. He wants to anaesthetise himself with a porn site or with Mummy's whispers. He wants to anaesthetise himself with romcom or with direct action protest, with friendship or strong drink. Whatever the anaesthetic, he wants it now. He is not ready to clothe himself in the fiery habit of confrontation with emptiness or naked compassion.