Page 31

A day had passed. BENJAMIN had released control, gone outside to plant potatoes for the rest of the day. He had drank a few glasses of wine and eaten good food. And while he did feel slightly better today, he still felt completely incapable of managing or controlling his emotions. He still felt entirely incapable of working to make money on the computer (some researchers are starting to theorize that ADHD symptoms primarily stem from emotional dysregulation).

He, alone in his tiny house, found himself screaming wildly back at his landlord’s rooster, which would not stop screeching. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he would cry out, desperately imagining its head being torn from its body, and the resulting silence that would ensue. And all the while, his mind kept flitting back to the financial ruin in which he currently found himself – the truly awful state of life that he found himself in – at the recently-turned age of 33, no less. And having just written for a few moments, BENJAMIN stopped to observe the question which had been lurking quietly above him, like a vulture hidden in the darkened forest canopy. Why hadn’t he killed himself yet?

BENJAMIN knew that he could succeed in life, in so many ways. That was the most bitterly painful part of his current outlook. The capability to write great books and music, raise and grow delicious food, create wonderful, inspiring art and architecture – it was there, inside of him, smoldering, a crackling little wisp of flame that refused to fully extinguish. It was still possible for his life to ignite into the creative firestorm which he’d always imagined it would be. Fast burning, wondrous, impactful. But something unseen, unknown, seemed to block him at every step. Those around him might call it laziness, or unresolved trauma. But BENJAMIN knew better.