I want to talk about a major source of discouragement. Comparison. I told a student recently, well, I quoted, that “comparison is the thief of joy.” Wish I came up with that, oh well, I’ll never be as poignant as Theodore Roosevelt.

Or be a president for that matter.

The student in question is one of my favourites. She’s a budding creative writer and was lamenting that she did not get enough readers on her Wattpad, where she specialises in FIFA fan fiction. Didn’t even know that was a thing till I met her, but hey, the internet is a glorious place.

She had 14 000 reads on one of her stories.

She’s 13.

I read a comment on one of her stories that went something like, “Hi, my 10-year-old son is a huge fan of all your stories. Could you please do one with [some dude] and Messi? Thank you.”

She gets requests. She’s still not happy.

I can’t even begin to articulate how mind-blowing it would be to be 13 and have 14k reads on a story. In fairness, she also has to deal with being a teenager, which I don’t envy her for, but I still had to convince her to stop comparing herself. It’s a truism, but there’s always someone better and there’s always someone worse.

For a while I couldn’t read or watch certain books and shows because they’d make me jealous.

I’m not the only one in this regard, having spoken to other people that do creative work.

Not only do I fail to enjoy what are, by definition, fantastic works of fiction, but I also fail to learn from them- which would be the more productive use of my mental energy. Over comparing isn’t a new phenomenon, but the media of our times has intensified it.

At a certain time in history, you might have had a shelf full of books by the so-called greats such as, If you’re English, the Homers and Shakespeares and Dickens. A handful of ‘masters’ to try to measure up to. Sure its a tall order, but I’d rather have a handful of teachers on a high shelf than what happens nowadays.

These days we’re surrounded by pedestals and giants. Not only that, we live in a culture that celebrates the giants. We aren’t just bombarded with the works of great creators, through Netflix and Ebooks and pirated entertainment on demand, we’re bombarded with their private lives and the behind the scenes, through the blogs of writers or Medium articles.

In a way its a magnificent time to be alive. Truly.

Unless you’re a budding creator. Whether its Instagram lifestyles, stories of insane body transformations, or entrepreneurs that make it big, we are surrounded by the narratives of the so-called great, and let’s face it, at least part ways lucky breakouts successes.

It can be discouraging. Sometimes its inspiring too, don’t get me wrong, but I wanted to talk about the flip side of that. There’s evidence that social media is utterly toxic. I’m hypothesising its the constant comparing that’s stealing the joy out of our lives.

I’d rather a monk’s cell with a handful of books and time to write than this cornucopia of original, often stunning work.

So what do we do with all this? Learning would be ideal. If possible, to take all this work and treat it like a resource, not a condemnation. I once wrote a short story about a kid who learns about his father through the Steam video game library he leaves behind for him, and one of the comments left by a judge in the competition I entered was that she had seen the same thing in an episode of Black Mirror. I’ve barely seen the show, so I hadn’t copied the thing, but that dismissal because she assumed I copied it, or maybe that it wasn’t original enough, that stung a bad one for a while.

But if instead of all this comparing, instead of treating the whole world of media as one global village we’re all a part of, what if instead we just look at it like islands. It’s not about how well your story does among the annals of every competition and award, but how it’s received by whoever reads it- no matter how limited a number that is. Your niche, your tribe, not the whole world. The internet is a network that connects readers to you. Your FIFA fan fiction lovers, your trashy erotica connoisseurs, all of them led by the hand to the one island they love.

We’ll never consume all the entertainment that’s out there right now. Every day we pass by the series and the stories that we would probably become insane fans of should we be exposed to them.

But its too much. So there is no universal audience that’s awaiting our next piece of creative work. There are the readers and the viewers who might not have seen that episode of Black Mirror, or who might be touched by our particular style even if there might be something ‘better’ out there for them. The concept of the hipster is of a person who’s always claiming that the mainstream version of a story is not the best representation of that genre. But hipsters are rare.

I’m trying to stop comparing myself to all these people. All the giants. It’s not productive. Because with that student of mine, I know as a teacher that my goal is to keep them writing. To encourage them. Because that’s how we get better in the end, and any force that pressures us to give up or slow down is an unconstructive one that ought to be overcome.

So sometimes I imagine that monk’s cell with that handful of books and ignore the noise. It’s fun. Whatever your endeavour, I encourage you to try it sometimes. This was a long post, and hopefully one that made some sense, because it is long and a bit of a ramble, but by the end of it I’ve convinced myself as well to compare less and maybe that’s a good thing.

After finishing my recent draft of book one and sending it out to readers I became…morose. I don’t like just waiting and I was waiting at that point. Life outside of writing does not have the same daily savour for me. Without a mountain, I feel directionless. My girlfriend always recommends me starting another project when one finishes because she knows what I’m like. Give me something to climb and I’ll ask for rest, give me rest and I’ll have an existential crisis.

But what is the mountain? I ask myself that and sometimes I think it’s about publishing and having a tonne of readers and writing that masterpiece one day, which involves an arctic battle between the forces of ancient and old versus some dudes protecting a queen. I’m not even kidding, there’s some half-formed idea that’s been gestating in my head for a decade or so that I do one day want to write. Sometimes I feel like its all leading towards that one random novel, but maybe that’s the nature of the mountain, its a made up peak so you have an excuse to climb.

And that’s fucking brilliant. I recommend it heartily. There should be mountains everywhere. Or at least hills. I think we live in a culture obsessed with entertainment. We’re bombarded with it every day; media, games, food, you name it. And we talk a lot about goals and self-improvement with the idea of a certain outcome in mind, whether its a better body or new experiences, or even meeting that special someone and finally filling that hole, whatever it may be. But there’s something to having a goal for the sake of it. For the glory of success, the struggle, the milestones, even the rejection. The rejection’s always yours to own- you did that, you made a thing or strove and because you chose that path you got knocked down, but isn’t that better than just coasting along?

I’m oddly inspired by a friend of mine who one day decided fuck it. I’m going to write a fantasy novel by doing 500 words a day. It’s not the goal that’s inspiring, but the commitment to a climb. It’s choosing that over going through the motions. I’m not trying to tell anyone their life is unfulfilling because everyone’s got different flavours and different priorities and that’s how it should be. But if you’re wondering whether you should even attempt to learn that new skill, to embark on that creative project, to take up fucking knitting, I’d like to say its worth it. Just for the sake of the mountain. I’m not promising you’ll succeed or that there’s anything at the peak or that there even is a peak to begin with. But waking up every day with a purpose is a wonderful thing, it fills a space that maybe, if you’re an enlightened sort of fellow, shouldn’t be there in the first place, except I suspect the hole is nowadays, for a lot of people.

I think on some level we’re this biological paradox, in that evolution has programmed us to seek leisure and rest but at the same time staying still will literally drive us crazy. If we tip too far in either direction we might lose it. There’s a balance that includes giving a shit and striving towards something. It’s what’s advanced our species despite on some level, not really needing to. We never needed art or a bunch of luxuries we invented, or to go to space or climb literal mountains. It’s built into us, as a side effect of evolution or a necessity of sentience. To climb some shit.

With that in mind, I remembered today why I started writing originally. What was actually at the top of the peak. It wasn’t to get published, it was to be a great writer. In short, out of all the art forms, writing, in my opinion, contains the greatest potential for capturing reality. If reality includes all our thoughts and perceptions, memories and emotions, flaws and glory, writing can maybe, just maybe capture and translate that to another living being as a form of profound connection. I started writing because I got the tiniest taste of that. I wanted to be a writer so I could do that some more, so that I could take a moment in time that I experienced and somehow convey it, that I could crystalize something human, that’s lost in the every day, that there ought to be a psychic snapshot of. None of this is to do with stories. I love stories too and I’m full of ideas and I want those ideas to come to life, but when it comes down to it, I started climbing because of this heady possibility, elusive though it may be.

I wanted to articulate that today.

If I can do that whilst having a bunch of orphans fight a steel worm in a desert more power to me. At the risk of sounding like one of those self-help guys always preaching a lesson, or directing the vague reader towards a certain path, I wholeheartedly encourage you to start climbing any of those mountains you dream of daily, that you glimpse in between the work and the rest.

Enough rambling! I hope some of this made a smidge of sense, because I’m in an introspective mood and it’s oddly freeing to be able to love what I do without feeling that desperate pressure to succeed at it.

I’ve had a lot of thoughts today. They are all over the place. Gnomes in my head messing with the machinery. Birds that keep showing up, or taking a shit on my head when I’m walking through Central.

Honestly, it’s an effort to stay cogent right now and write something clearly. There’s a lot of noise, a lot of nonsensical, paranoid thoughts- or as we call them in the bipolar biz “Intrusive Negative Thoughts.”

I like to think of it as an asshole that lives in my head, with access to memories and a sadistic desire to degrade, demotivate and put down who I am. He talks fast.

The original title of this post was “Walk the line” and comes from a friend of mine.

It applies to everyone to some extent, but being bipolar, it works like this. I think many fellow bipolar bears would agree.

There are a set of parallel lines that we have to walk within. Now, for neurotypicals, the lines are there as well, but arguably a bit wider. As long as you stay within the lines, you stay on track. A serious illness, or another life-changing event, copious amounts of drugs, bad relationships, trauma, picking up a new addiction or a bad habit, that can push someone outside of the lines. Outside the line’s the free fall, the spiralling, and it makes it harder to get back inside. Aspects of your life suffer- work, relationships, aspirations.

For Bipolars the lines are particularly important. Skidding out of those lines can happen slowly, it can happen over the course of days, of weeks. Sometimes it's an insidious change. A slow rot. Then there’s hell to pay.

So we absolutely have to live within the lines. Sleeping on time. Taking your meds, avoiding negative influences (ingested or otherwise), eating healthy, meditating, managing stress, exercising regularly, thinking positively, doing your thinking therapy (such as cognitive behavioural therapy), being vigilant for negative thoughts, all of it.

Everyone has their own lines.

Suffice to say, I strayed a bit, but I’ve got a good feeling about tomorrow that I’ll be on the up and up.

Meditation is amazing. I don’t do it regularly enough, but it’s excellent for bipolar, and for life in general. All that was a preamble to my minimal bullshit guide to meditating. There’s a lot of crazy, complicated crap about meditation. But you don’t actually need it.

Take it from a guy for whom meditation is powerful, maybe even necessary.

STEP 1

Sit somewhere. You don’t have to sit straight. You can slouch.

Sit in a way that’s non-painful.

Just don’t lie down, or sit in a position that leads to you falling asleep. Make sure it’s quiet. How quiet? As quiet as you can manage. Don’t panic if you can’t find total silence.

STEP 2

Set a timer for five minutes. If five is too much, set it to two. No one is watching. This isn’t a competition, this is you building a habit.

STEP 3

Close your eyes. Breathe in through your nose. Out through your nose. In through your nose. Out through your nose.

You are now sitting in the dark, in a quiet place, breathing.

Despite the stupid simplicity of it we never do this almost ever. But to take this to the point of meditation you need step 4.

STEP 4

From now on, you will equate concentration with meditation. You are a Jedi. A Bene Gesserit. Whilst you breathe, you will focus your thoughts on ONE thing. Your breath.

What is going to happen is your mind will not abide by this. You will think all sorts of other stuff. You’ll worry about shit. You’ll have random memories. Your feet will itch. But is that really YOU? Are you thinking it? What is You? Who the fuck cares. This is a game. The game is to remember to focus on one thing. Your breath. But that’s kind of vague isn’t it? Your breath is a complex series of movements. Your chest rises. Your lungs take on air. There’s that Darth Vader noise. Your nose hairs twitch. It doesn’t matter which part of the sensory experience deemed “breathing” you focus on, as long as it’s just one thing. Don’t drift.

This is a game.

You are like Luke making those rocks float whilst doing a handstand. You are concentrating.

Do this till the timer beeps.

Play the game once a day. Anytime except right before sleeping. When you feel comfortable kick it up to ten minutes.

Congratulations! You have now begun the process of improving your working memory, decreasing stress, growing new neurons and stimulating neuroplasticity- your brain’s ability to reshape itself. Specifically, by increasing the amount of matter which contributes to higher-level reasoning and self-control, or as I like to think about it, the freedom to do what you actually planned on doing and not what you have been programmed to.

You are lowering your mortality rate, treating your mental illness and healing your mind.

You are training a new muscle. Metaphorically. By which I mean you are training your fucking brain. Just don’t quit. Keep refocusing.

Feel free to tag on any other extra bullshit if you prefer.

The scientific consensus on the subject, however, does not show that any other method is more effective than the “basic” one you now know.

After you have done this for a few days, eat a meal right afterwards.

Notice how you are able to focus more on the taste of the food. If you are eating a shitty salad, don’t meditate right before.

Meditate if you are anxious. It’ll be harder but it’ll also be more worth it.

Meditation is the opposite of a placebo. It’s a thing that seems superficial and stupid in its simplicity but according to huge amounts of evidence has insane benefits.

Bonus fact: it’s possible to activate the cannabinoid receptors in your brain through meditation. This can lead to hallucinations and thus, God.

It explains a lot of history.

He told me to come to his favorite gym, in Jordan, and that it was his special place, and that it was a piece of shit.

He said that it was right next to the Jordan MTR, exit b, and a whorehouse.

It had been sometime since I’d seen my bipolar friend, Theo, who had casually introduced me to his other friends, at his last birthday, as his ‘soulmate.’ He wore the same label too many of my other bipolar friends did, “Intense.” Theo is a bit “Intense.”

Theo is fucking awesome.

Hong Kong has this way of reminding you that your life doesn’t matter. Jordan could give a shit that I was seeing Theo again for the first time. People streamed by, hurrying away from the graying clouds, carrying bags, phones, briefcases, suits, spilling all over the place; Theo just one of a dozen people waiting outside the MTR for who knows and what.

But today mattered to me. It was the first time I had hired a personal trainer, which is another way of saying it was the first time I’d committed to improving my health by paying for my own warden and teacher.

Theo’s been my sifu in more than one way.

I had an ‘episode’ once, which is the only noun I can consistently use to describe punctuated, irregular, and somewhat profoundly shit periods where the anxiety, negative thoughts, hypomania, whatever- begin to overwhelm me. So two years ago I called him up, said I needed help. He invited me across the city and we walked for hours whilst he talked about chaos magic, love, self-control and in a dozen way told me that we just weren’t like the muggles, and that’s okay. He gave me real advice, the kind that sounds crazy to people who aren’t.

He’s got two new earrings shaped like dragons now, and is both less fat and more cut than I remember. I almost want to ask him an idiotic question- if he’s had any surgery on his eyes. They seemed extra bright today, awake in a way other people’s aren’t. Theo’s both in his own world, and seems to me more lucid than the rest of us. His unapologetic immersion in that private world some bipolars would rather hide makes him seem more, not less grounded.

We enter the sort of doorless passages that tunnel through apartment buildings, metal gates ajar, a place of transit between two streets, with a center of steel letter boxes and staircases that were technically only for emergencies, and perpetually in use. There’s a coke bottle filled with ash and something the color of piss, nestled in the floor corners on each landing, cigarette dressing, torn at paint, litter, dead cockroaches and faded Chinese characters as we went up to the first floor. When we reach the right corridor, he jerks a thumb and disclaims: “Whore house.” The sign is missing the ‘O’ in guest hotel, the corridor turning out of sight ahead, about as welcoming as a post apocalyptic, bombed out skyscraper.

It’s in good company.

Theo’s talking, he’s talking about all sorts of things, but the truth is my heads still where my phone was, some stupid conversation about some game with some people. I wanted to leave that behind, I’d turned my phone all the way off- the sort of thing I only do on airplanes and in movie theaters, like I’m taking off the one fucking ring from Sauron. I was here for the workout, but I was also here for him. I had some vague notion that being around my bipolar sifu is exactly what I needed to get a long overdue dose of sanity.

The gym has a reception desk, sort of. It’s a taped together wooden-almost-box, with no one behind it. Theo said it’s 350 HKD to workout at this gym. Per month. But we just strolled past the empty desk, which later on I saw had a steel box and a coin slot, for the five dollars you threw in before grabbing a bonaqua from the glass fronted mini fridge next to it. That fridge that was by far the most advanced piece of technology in the gym.

The spaces between the machines were just about enough for one full frontal body builder stepping forward, or two mortals shuffling sideways. Every piece of metal, from barbell to dumb bell, seat to rail, was coated in differing tones of rust. The padded seats were faded blues and greens, so that the whole place seemed painted in only two palettes- the off white yellowed-paper of old Hong Kong and vague pastel colors, like old film left out in the sun- and steel, everywhere in-between. There were mirrors, most of them cracked and taped, and the only sounds were those of grunting men, clanking metal, and the whines-to-shrieks of tortured gym machines tough as war vets.

“This is my special place.” Theo says. “My temple.”

I am technically the member of two other gyms. One is located in a fancy Country Club, way out on the island’s south side. It has changing rooms with saunas and showers larger than the actual gym area, and twice as many treadmills and cycles than weight machines. The other is at my parent’s place, also on the island. There, the amount of free space is absurd- and usually near empty, with always enough spare exercise balls, machines, weights, ropes, half-balls, mats, and all the other paraphernalia that reminds newbies they’ve got so much further to go.

There, old lady’s bring their personal trainers- screaming drill sergeants wearing loud tank-tops, blasting music, taking up as much space as they can.

Here, the mirrors are cracked, but never above the legs, so that you can still see your form from the waist up. The weights are rusted- but not on the handles. The bars still have smooth sections to measure where you plant your fingers, the load bearing steel still gleams. There is one piece of shit excuse for an elliptical, which looks two decades old and has a liquid crystal, old-school gameboy monitor smaller than my palm. The padding may be cracked, but never ripped.

And there were only men.

Big men. Chinese. Indian. Some southern European guy. Tattoos and a ripped black dude. You couldn’t hear the rest of Jordan, which in of itself was a minor miracle. If you want to go somewhere, someone has to give way. And they do. Quietly, respectfully. Even though I’m the tiniest mother fucker there, and I’m almost six foot and weigh 195.

It’s perfect.

It is a temple. For the first time in a long time, I begin to feel like a man. This is a place of maleness. Not the ugly kind, filled with beer, cussing, slapping the stupid and googling women. This was sombre, serious, intense. Sacred.

“Look at your dick.” Theo says.

He’s teaching me to squat properly for the first time in my life. “Look at your dick. Now drop. That’s how you keep your head straight.”

I got a taste of his teaching style as soon we got in. No preamble. No bullshit. He starts talking about how squats are the integral movement, after a 45 second long interview about what exactly I hoped to achieve- strength and weight loss. Throughout the nearly two hour workout, Theo alternates between detailed explanations of anatomy, balance, efficiency and technique, and analogies that both convey exactly how something should be done, whilst reminding me that this is a place of men, and not taking shit seriously is exactly what makes it so serious.

“I want you to pretend you are taking a shit.” He says, right after the interview. He starts squatting over a bench, perpendicular to me. I knew this was coming, Theo doesn’t shock me. The man’s a miniature Buddha and it’s a tribute to how fucked up our society is that he hasn’t got a rabid following. Still, the next line manages to stun for a second. “Now put your hand underneath you, like you’re wiping it. I go under from the front, some people the back.” He demonstrates. I mimic his movements, as I too, go under from the front. His hand is flat, eyes laser focused on me as we both pretend to take a shit. “Feel that? We squat every day. Now go lower. Ass back. Weight on your heels.”

In 5 minutes I learn more about squatting than I have in my entire life.

The man’s a fucking genius.

We go to a mirror, and he teaches me proper form. Without hesitation, intended comedy or affectation, he says things like “Look at your dick.” and later, “You got to slide the barbell up and down your fucking torso. Rub it like you love it.” as well as “Thrust, thrust like you’re fucking the mirror.” To correct the angle of my benchpress he reminds me it’s not too low, not too ‘sieg heil’ high.

Later, when I bench the max I can he informs me that I just bench pressed the weight of a small woman. “Which feels good, right?” It does feel good.

For some reason, the fucking anxiety comes anyway. The negative thoughts, the voices, they surface, ambushing me throughout the workout. I mutter to myself, hope he doesn’t catch it. I try to focus on what he is saying. At one point, I tell him I need two minutes. I’m too nervous to explain why, I practically mumble something about needing to ‘center myself.’ because I’m surrounded by men. Men don’t have voices they can’t handle. Even though I’m working my ass off, and Theo’s being both encouraging and honest, I find it hard to look anywhere but the floor- and wherever Theo says to look. Like my dick. I tell him, a bit, that it’s happening. I know he won’t judge.

He says, “When I’m at the gym, I try to empty my mind. You have to empty your mind. Look at the mirror. When my mind is empty I look like a fucking retard. My mouth’s hanging open. I’m slack jawed. This is my Simon and Garfunkle face. But that’s fine. Keep moving your hands, you need some kind of anxious movement, even if your mind’s empty you got to stay active.” I do, my hands start rotating, arms waving to the side, my mind is empty. It’s a rare treat.

In Hong Kong, Yoda looks like a guy in a tank top, diagnosed bipolar and explaining to me how he had to master technique, because all the other body builders had genetic advantages, would try to kill themselves working out. He says you have to rest, and before I ask whether its 30 seconds to two minutes, he says ‘as long as you fucking need. Sometimes I rest for five minutes. Ten. Doesn’t matter. I have a trick. If you can say two coherent sentences in a row, then you’re ready.”

We only do reps of five, but he’ll keep upping the weights till I’ve hit my limit. He’s explaining how to track things via spreadsheet. Points out how injuries happen. “Five people die every year from dropping the bar on their neck. But that’s significantly lower than the number of people that die from vending machines falling on them.” He explains anatomy and shakes his head with honest disdain at all the videos, the trainers, the cross fitters who make it look like you have to kill yourself to look good. “They sell intensity. They make it seem like you have to feel exhausted or you haven’t worked out. It’s bullshit.”

None of the 200 pound plus motherfuckers in the gym are screaming, or piston firing their limbs, the way they do on the island. They seem quiet. Focused. I know on some level they are bantering, I hear the Cantonese patter of some OG’s in the corner. I watch a white haired, wrinkled man bench over two hundred pounds wearing frayed grip gloves so old and yellowed they look like mummy wraps.

It’s the best workout I’ve ever had. It felt like class. At one point, a guy at least twice my size has to get past me, and I step forward and his hand brushes my back, and he instantly apologises with the deference of a nervous teenager. I know I’m projecting, and that some of these guys are assholes, and that some of this equipment sucks, but the lack of sophistry makes the workouts seem honest. There is a strange symbiosis between the lifters, who silently exchange machines, put back weights, switch between parts of the room within inches of one another- no one seems to have to ask anyone. No ones got their towel taking up space like an asshole, there are no signs to wipe down the machines. They share each others sweat, they are forced to confront how they might all be on their own journeys, but they are among fellow travelers.

On some days, I fucking love this city.

And in this city, this gym is what a temple really looks like.

I said “Oh.” and accompanied her through a glass door that I could have sworn was from work. On the other side was a maze of cubicles. The sounds of phones ringing, of hurried typing, so much of it was recognizable. The hundreds of cubicles were not. “What office is this? Did I make an appointment or…”

She interrupted by stabbing my shoe with the tip of her heel. I screamed and no one seemed to care. She explained: “Sorry but I have to hurt you if you ask me questions.”

I almost asked why.

She motioned me to follow, so I did to a cubicle with a man inside and a single chair.

Peter said: “Sit!”

I held my foot and again the question pulsed: Why?

Peter said: “It’s your head! You tell me! Maybe it’s a metaphor- think of it as pain guiding you here, or something. All questions lead to suffering. Etcetera. Besides you’re dead, literally, so don’t worry too much.”

He had a point.

Peter said: “Actually, you still have a little bit you have to worry about, or at least some choices that need to be made, concerning your severance package.

Before I could phrase another question he answered: “Look, just go with it. Focus on how comfortable this environment is. How familiar. Don’t ask questions, it’s too late for all that. And don’t worry about the people you recognize. It’s perfectly normal.”

Peter got down on his knees, on the computer brought up a spreadsheet. “Let’s see now.” He said. Over his shoulder I saw tiny black marks, thousands of words in a too small font. I croaked: “Peter…can I…leave…please?

Without looking back he said: “Don’t worry you’ll be gone soon. You just need to go through your review, and poof, you’ll be done.”

“What do you mean…gone?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

So I was going to die, or I was already dead, or oblivion was next. Peter said: “Exactly! Here, we’re going to start now, so you understand why you get what’s coming to you next. Unless you prefer we skip this?”

And expedite my non-existence? Fuck that. Peter said “Typical” and brought up Youtube.

“You have internet here?”

“No it’s an illusion. We have something better.” He typed: Lowest point before forty.

One hit only. In the screenshot I saw myself lying on a bathroom floor, two plastic prescription bottles in one hand, a Gideon’s Bible in the other. Peter pressed play and I beat my head bloody with the bible. I watched myself tear out random pages, terrified of Peter witnessing me committing what was probably sacrilege. I tried to explain: “I didn’t know, okay? Sorry, so sorry, I didn’t know the Bible was…I mean I’m not even Christian!”

“Just watch. We’ll turn up the sound.” He did and we heard a voice speaking, though the high-definition image of my mouth remained shut. I heard my voice, the way it sounds normally, inside my own head, say: “Can’t do this anymore. Can’t get up again. No reasons left. No one to see me rise. No point in doing anything.” Then the tears started. “Fucking lonely stupid loser. Fucking FAILURE of a man. Deserves nothing. Deserves to die.” There was a murmuring sound then, too quiet to make out.

Peter said: “Ah, need to turn this part up, it’s a background thought, very hard to hear.” And he fiddled with the controls till we could make out what I thought, which was: “Beccy cares. Arjun cares. Other people suffer too. Don’t give up on them.” Then blasting out, so loud I covered my ears:

“JUST TAKE THE PILLS AND SLEEP THE GOOD SLEEP REST FINALLY REST …” and Peter muted it.

With the volume down I looked like somebody lying on a bathroom floor, clearly miserable, but seemingly doing nothing for an hour or so. Then with the volume up I heard myself find hope and choose to flush the pills down the toilet. Peter showed me other scenes after, and how they all linked, one into the other. He watched me watch myself being decent to strangers, showed me how I affected them, how their lives were indirectly improved by the hope I had found on that cold floor. He showed me how my kindness had been kindled by suffering, and how with my everyday actions I saved people- for eons he showed me videos of them remembering what I’d done or said and thus finding the strength to get back up themselves.

He showed me all the ways I’d suffered and the empathy inculcated by years of torment.

Afterwards I was ready. I told Peter I could die now.

He told me to wait, that we had to go into his office. On the way I overheard someone say “Sex is good, fuck, sex is GREAT, but the money, it’s empty- so let’s try having less.”

Inside Peter’s office I wondered: Do I get heaven now? Or is this it?

He said I would be gone, one way or another. I thought I was supposed to be Hindu, and that this was not the karma I had been taught about.

“Don’t worry Ray!” Peter said. “All that’s left is this…” And he produced a blank paper pad and a pen. “Now Ray, in case it wasn’t abundantly clear, you did good. As far as this department is concerned you did good with what you had.”

“So I won then?” I asked, the tears finally pouring out in this absurd and twisted version of the afterlife.

“Yeah you did great Ray, real super. So, here’s the deal.” He put the pen next to the paper, pushed both towards me.

“Write your own cheque Ray. You decide the circumstances of your next life. Completely up to you! For example…that…ah…K-pop guy you heard outside- you want to be like him? Sex, all the sex you’d ever want, or money, security, fame. You want it, you got it. A soul mate maybe? Meet her, or him by the time you’re say…twenty-three? Done and done. You get the idea. Write it out Ray, and your next life, that’s it.”

So I stopped crying and wrote something down.

Handed Peter back the paper.

He stared at the three words I’d written:

One More Time.

I explained: “I want to suffer the same way.”

“Ray? I don’t think you understand how this works…”

“No, I do.”

“You people…Okay. You’re the boss”

We left the office and I wandered the cubicles for awhile, watching others, hearing their last requests.

Questions came whilst we walked back to the front door, which Peter held open for me. Will I remember any of this? Is this real? Does it matter? I looked in front of me at the darkness, said “Goodbye Peter.”

“Only for now. But I have to ask…why are you choosing pain, again?”

“Because I think it’ll make me kind.”

It was the last thing I said to him. Never got to hear what he thought about it.