Page 91 of Paint the Town, Dove
Why couldn’t I be fucking grateful? For a second. One SECOND.
LOOK –
WHERE –
YOU –
ARE.
I cleared my throat. “Ah, nothing. Really,” I smiled, “just ready for the tour to be over.”
“Tired?” he asked.
“Blessed, don’t get me wrong, I just – “
He held up a finger. “Nooooo, no, no,” clicking his tongue, “none of that. You are a hit in the stars right now, Mr. Spectre. You can be tired, you can be overwhelmed, you can be whoever you want to be as long as you’re happy.”
Happy, right.
But what did that mean?
Happy with what? My hobbies?
I knew what I liked – music, (booze), music, (drugs), music –
Forgetting.
Why? Why did I like those things?
My therapist Rachel taught me to do this shadow work technique of asking questionsto your questions. I thought it was bullshit, but the anxiety was driving at one-sixty sofuck it, give it a shot.
Why do you like these things, Ryden?
I mean… I never used to be this way, addicted to the feeling of floating – miles away from the life I craved for so long.
When did this all change?
I never used to drink, I didn’t smoke, Ipromise. I didn’t abuse substances the way I assaulted them now.
So what led you to this?
I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
It haunted me like a chorus, cranked in my brain.
Your dream.
Your dream led you to this.
This is what you wanted.
And it ruined you.
“Mr. Spectre?”
“Christ,” I jolted, slapping my face. A veil of creamy paste coloured the inside of my palm. “Sorry? Sorry. Octo, honestly, I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me right now.”
He set down his brush, one hand on his hip. “This is your night. Sing for the people who love you, not for the people who pretend to.”
