A Talk With Squishy-Camus
Featuring things hard to say
I sighed, closing my laptop and moving aside my shells, rocks and some sort of forgotten artifact which I imagined imprisoned an ancient being. Just because it was simply a piece of driftwood did not exclude this possibility. Fluffing up my favourite pillow, I fell back onto it with a dramatic sigh which was unnecessary. I looked towards the ceiling.
“Squishy-Camus, do you think I am mad?”
He had been propped up for this conversation in a manner which seemed dignified. Although his facial expression could not change, as his label declared he was made from polyester, he was most certainly an excellent talking partner.
“Are you talking about the Wanda incident again?” he asked hesitantly.
I contemplated this for a few moments before speaking again. “No, I don’t believe so. Besides, Jaime told me in session that I showed no signs of psychosis. He said I was too articulate. And a few other things which I cannot recall. But. What if I am legitimately insane, like in comics?” I adopted a deep and ominous tone for my narration. “I become involved in an investigation of the haunted asylum, from which strange wailings have been coming. After a series of complex mysteries and terrifying encounters with the paranormal, I untangle the truth. I am a patient in the asylum! My entire life is a plot twist.”
Squishy-Camus sighed. “I thought we were here to talk about your writer’s block,” he said tiredly.
“We are but we must first address the possibility that the writer’s block stems from madness!” I declared with indignation before frowning. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be leaving these spaces between what you and I say to one another. This dialogue thing. I used to be able to do the dialogue thing.”
“The spaces are right,” Squishy soothed.
I paused. “There is a quote. About insanity. It is a good quote.”
“There are three quotes you like about insanity. And none are deleted because you only learnt them after what happened. So it all depends on the one you are looking for.”
“Mmmmm the Bukowski. Give me a moment.” I squeezed my eyes shut as I do when I’m digging around in the recesses of my mind. “I have it! Wait, I will do the fancy quote thing.”
Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live. — Charles Bukowski
“That is right.”
I did not speak for a while, as I was being pushed into one of my infinite tunnels of deep thought.
“You know,” said Squishy, “you’re only doing this to avoid the real problem. With has nothing to do with your thoughts on madness.”
It wasn’t his words that snapped me out of my contemplation, but his tone. When Squishy-Camus speaks in a way devoid of emotion, it means he is both serious and correct.
“I want to cry.”
“I know.”
“Okay, I am crying.”
“Perhaps you should hug me.”
I took this advice.
“I found files. I found files in the garage that I told my Mom to throw away but I guess she couldn’t. And then, instead of just leaving I sat down and tortured myself by paging through and forcing myself to read all I knew that I don’t know anymore. It hurt so much. Netter’s. Why is Netter’s still here? I wanted it gone. Because the facts are gone but the memories linger. My walls entirely covered in diagrams, and my body entirely covered in permanent marker. They are tiny cuts.”
“I know.”
“The pieces of broken mirror on the ground. They don’t fit back together.” I closed my eyes. “I am tired Squishy. So tired.”
“I know.”
There was silence for a long time after that. Eventually Squishy-Camus spoke.
“It’s absurd isn’t it?”
I furrowed my brow. “What is absurd?”
“What keeps you going. The stars. An email. Words on a mug… Keep you going.”
The stars, an email and words on a mug.
I smiled through tears. “It is absurd.”
