The block of ice can't help giving off a cold air, it doesn’t do it deliberately. It's not its fault. The block of ice doesn’t want to be a block of ice, it would much rather be a warm pool teeming with micro-bacterial life.
It’s punishment enough to be trapped as a block of ice, it doesn’t need abuse from other people as well. It doesn’t need punishment from outside, being is punishment enough.
Strindberg. Munch. Hugh Grant. David Mellor. Judge the worth of a person by looking at their enemies.
Eric Cantona used the ugliness and abuse to fuel him, give him power. Perhaps that’s what Sarah meant me to do.
To ween yourself off the morphine and accept some modicum of reality. To suffer the abuse, and to not be crushed by it, but triumph to confound them. To confound! To draw power from abuse, take it in, convert it and use it back at them to confound and distress them, make them see themselves for the small people they are.
Hugh Grant gives me strength, and inspiration!
Their silly self-humiliation is the sweet air I need to breathe. Schadenfreude. Their attempted pain is what gives me pleasure. Eric Cantona came back from his private despair to win the double with Manchester United and be voted player of the year by the press. The adversity was what he needed to wrest his triumph. Hugh Grant needs his shameful incident to build his triumph. I need my shameful incidents to build my triumph.
I inject their abuse like Sherlock Holmes injects cocaine. I will have my Baker Street rooms. It strengthens me, and thrills me, and becomes my dearest companion.
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