Stage Eight

Day 53

I realized my dog died last week,

the moment I took one last swig of the brandy my wife hid after she left

and I sat in the kitchen

crying for my dog

the way I was supposed to when she died,

and then suddenly I stopped,

I couldn’t tell who I was crying over.

My evening appointment consisted of a new prescription,

and a new diagnosis,

an unfamiliar agnostic feeling washed over my senses;

like a tsunami pooling around every infrastructure within a city,

I was ironically as calm as the buildings that remained upright.

I was no longer manically depressed.

“You are commonly known as a psychopath now.”, he told me.

“I prefer the word, ‘creative’.”

Day 55

I started taking my new medication, and

I realized I’ve never had a wife,

I’ve never had a son either.

And the dog that was dead in the yard

was a racoon.