22
I wake to the dream I’m in a world of broken glass. It’s everywhere: glittering slivers wafting in the air I breathe; jagged shards cobbled in the path I stand upon; serrated flakes that are tiled in glimmering fields, before rising into precariously stacked mountains; and a sky that might be a shattered mirror. I’m twenty-five and going through my second serious bout of depression, struggling to find functionality and purpose in a life that feels like it’s irreparably breaking. It’s not surprising to be here. Part of me, I think, abides here, and it’s a case of just how present I am. Now I am wholly here. Every step…
16
I lay awake and listen to the sounds of the night. The ringing in my ears – that constant single frequency. The sound that exists under it – a dull roar, like holding a seashell to your ear, only the report’s so low it’s almost inaudible. The hiss of air from my CPAP machine. My own shallow breathing. Sometimes I hear other things, like little footsteps charging over the roof. Possums. Well, it has to be. When I’m in my study, it’s not unusual to hear them leap onto the fence in the backyard. Or, sometimes, if I have friends over, when I escort them out late at night, we…