Gidday, mate

Something wants to destroy me. It comes in the night and
sits on my chest. Heavy. Stifling. Oppressive. But it has no
power itself to kill me; its job is to raise the idea, put it on
the agenda, so to speak. At three in the morning it can do
a pretty good job of convincing me of the uselessness of
existence. Which is dirty work, but I guess someone’s got
to do it. No doubt we each have our own version of this
charming character. Doris Lessing calls it the self-hater; or
it might be said to be our death, which, as Maeterlinck says,
comes into the world with us when we are born and goes
with us everywhere. Maybe, instead of fearing it, I should
make friends with it. Gidday, mate.