[b]Ottessa Moshfegh
And anyway, there is no comfort here on Earth. There is pretending, there are words, but there is no peace. Nothing is good here. Nothing. Every place you go on Earth, there is more nonsense.[/b]
You read things like this in books. And then decide for yourself if it goes too far.
The notion of my future suddenly snapped into focus: it didn’t exist yet.
Maybe, but don’t let that fool you.
I didn’t believe in heaven, but I did believe in hell.
After all, he thought, we’re living in it.
Sometimes I feel dead, I told her, and I hate everybody.
Well, believe it or not, sometimes I don’t.
Every three days, I’d wake up, look at calendar, eat, drink, bathe, et cetera. I would only spend one hour awake each time. I did the math: for the next four months, 120 days total. I would spend only fourth hours in a conscious state.
Wow, if only!
But coming out of that sleep was excruciating. My entire life flashed before my eyes in the worst way possible, my mind refilling itself with all my lame memories, every little thing that had brought me to where I was. I’d try to remember something else—a better version, a happy story, maybe, or just an equally lame but different life that would at least be refreshing in its digressions—but it never worked. I was always still me. Sometimes I woke up with my face wet with tears. The only times I cried, in fact, were when I was pulled out of that nothingness, when the alarm on my cell phone went off.
In other words, not just a shitty mood anymore.