The Emperor of Gladness

by Ocean Vuong

Rehab, if nothing else, was a place to store yourself for a while. It was also, he quickly learned, a kingdom of boredom—but maybe that was the point, the goal even: to be with yourself, which was its own kind of hell. All the clichés about it are true. You wait around until whatever poison that’s ruining you empties into the world as time. Then you fill that emptiness with more time.

“You’re just clinically depressed,” he heard himself say. “Means you’re sad without a reason.” Her forehead wrinkled at the idea. “No, I didn’t outlive Stalin to be depressed.” She shook her head defiantly. “You kids blame everything on feelings. Do you blame starvation on feelings too? Floods? Earthquakes?” “Look, I have it too. It’s just like weather. Like clouds and rain and stuff. They go away. But some of us spend more time in London, you know? Or Seattle. You’re just raining right now. Remember? What about the rabbits and the light inside the carrots and all that?” She nodded. “I guess I’m raining on Christmas Eve, then.”