an arrow shot at the abyss of eternal void

In Memoriam: Philip Seymour Hoffman

When I heard news of Hoffman’s death last week, I was walking, on my way to work in Shepherds Bush against the cold winter. The brutality of negative wind chills pierces the warm sludge of depressive fixating thoughts. Growing up in London, I’ve acquired a respect for the violence of winter — it’s one way to get focused. The chill shakes you out of yourself; you do battle with it, a kind of self-forgetting that only sleep and intoxicants used to bring. In trips to Sudan, I spent most days having siestas, and in London summers I would still lay around but would also smoke a lot of weed. It wasn’t a serious addiction but it still was a crutch that in the end along with depression brought me to my knees; that brought me to ruined relationships and crying on the bathroom floor as the sink is colored in red and white. A sad clown. There is no doubt in my mind that if I hadn’t quit, I would be in a far worse place than were I am know. Here I am. Different focus.

Click here to read the rest of this article I wrote for TR.