He wanted to be sick. He wanted to forget. He wanted to go to the moksha fields and burn every last damn flower so his mind was small again. He shouted, “You made me this thing, this new thing. I look and see now. I hear and listen now. I’m sad in ways I never imagined. I can’t sit still. I can’t think straight. Some days I can’t believe I’m alive and other days I don’t want to be alive anymore.
