Absurdly Grateful

Absurdly grateful – that's the phrase that sums it up, W. says. Take at my life, the misery of my life – take what little I've achieved, what little chance I had, and what little I've accomplished even despite that lack of opportunity – and still, I'm absurdly grateful.

I'm grateful for my flat, for the squalor in which I live. I'm grateful for the damp that streams down the walls and the rats that crawl over one another in my back yard. And with my solitude, my misery, the fact I speak to no one, the fact that no one speaks to me - it's exactly the same: I'm absurdly grateful.

'You're surprised even to have got this far', W. says, that's what horrifies him. This far – but how far have I got? If anything, I've gone backwards; I've ended up with less than I had before. I've subtracted something from the world. Haven't I taken from W.? Haven't I deprived him of some important part of his capability?

I'll thank them as they kick me in the teeth, W. says. But I'll thank them, too, when they kick W. in the teeth. A friend of mine deserves nothing else, that's how I think of it, isn't it? Down we fall, further and yet further. Down - another step, and down again – W. didn't know there were any more steps – and thanking them all the way …