The Prince of Milk

by Exurb1a

But then maybe that's how beauty keeps its market value, else the world would be full of beautiful things and no one would give a damn about any of them.

Better to keep lovers at arm's length from then on, he decided. A wrapped surprise was better than an opened gift you never wanted anyway. That was a fine philosophy to lead a life by. Probably.

“Times of adversity should be met with great courage.”

“I don't think belief changes anything one way or the other. Water stays wet however hard you wish it wasn't,” Whistle mutters to himself. “Doesn't it get a little dull, being so rigid?” “I'd rather know the truth over a convenient lie, however miserable it might be.”

And if you were the one who'd gone mad, how could you possibly tell?

There's no grand plan and no one's in charge. It's all just fumbling about in the dark, and half the time you're not even sure why you're fumbling. You're so desperate for something to pin your peace of mind to that you'll do all sorts of stupid things in its name. You don't mean to break up a marriage, but if breaking it up might let you sleep like a normal person again, suddenly you start considering it. You don't mean to become a drunk, but if drink is the only way you can keep a handle on some tiny compartment of your life then it's straight for the bottle.”

The great tragedy isn't death. It's losing each other across history. You understand that now, don't you? I'd like to see you again.

He goes inwards, looking for his essence, a ledge to hold on to; something beneath all the wanting and opinions and angst and fantasies and plans and grievances and mental detritus of a lifetime; something enduring that will not be subdued, something he can grasp at and say, I was here. Donya. Cairo. His parents. Childhood. His body. Holidays. Tax returns. Zoe. Morning coffee. A desperate attempt to mean something before the lights go out. The smell of grass. A bout of mononucleosis once. The swinging chair in the garden. Guilt. No, he thinks. There's nothing tangible in there. Not really. But it felt that way. It always felt that way.

it's all right to have a meltdown about the whole affair from time to time, faced with the pressures of modern existence, trying to be a good human and a good worker and a good son/daughter/parent, trying to be a good citizen, trying to be wise without condescension but uninhibited without recklessness, trying to just muddle through without making any silly decisions, trying to align with the correct political opinions, trying to stay thin, trying to be attractive, trying to be smart, trying to find the ideal partner, trying to stay financially secure, trying to just find some modest corner of meaning and belonging and sanity to go and sit in, and all the while living on the edge of dying forever. We're all in the same strange boat, grappling with the same strange condition. But it isn't quite so scary if we all do it together. So let's do it together.