Moment of Terror

He's half-dead when I see him. Cigarette in hand, his hair disheveled, and eyes that keep squinting as if it hurts to look. Books and papers strewn across his desk spill onto the floor. His normally spartan room now cluttered with objects reflects the aftermath of some inner madness. He's calm now,sort of dead and wrung out. There's no where to sit, so I shove a few things to the side of his unmade bed: notepads, broken pencils, three different thesauruses,an ashtray with some of its contents spilled onto the sheets...ugh..

"Sorry", he says with a slight smile. I didn't notice that I had expressed my disgust out loud.

"How have you been?" he says, as he toys mindlessly with an empty bottle on the desk. He doesn't look at me, just stares absently at his hand fiddling with the bottle.

"Better than this", I say indicating his messy room, and he gives a short laugh.

There's a long silence. Light streams through the window and warms my face. I stare at him - a solitary figure, slumped and defeated in his chair. Crumpled pieces of paper: the ruins of thought, lay at his feet. He is a pathetic (it pains me to say "pathetic") image of corroded vitality.

He sees me staring at him. My expression must have been honest because he says: "Don't pity me". But in defending himself he seems all the more vulnerable. He is weak. His weakness is terrifying. His overwhelming humanity is terrifying. With terror there is a moment of suspension, of transfixion, where one experiences the unforgiving frankness of the soul. In my moment of terror, I understand him more than I have ever understood anyone in moments of love.