Psychotic

I am psychotic. It’s a thing. A condition beset only upon me. And this is how it looks. For example. I am very drunk and outside a pub. I hear my name being called. It’s someone I recognise but don’t recall his name. Of course, he knows mine, he knows me seemingly very well. But who is he? Who the fuck is he? How do I know him? I can tell you that once I found him attractive and probably had a crush on him or something. I mean, in this situation his name could be Will or Jake or Hugh or mix of all of the above. But he asks me how I am. And I hug him and kiss him on the lips because it seems appropriate but judging by his reaction to my assumed intimacy it is kind of awkward. And then I say: ok, I’m ok, how are you? Good good, he’ll say and then proceed to give me the details. He’s moved here for work or study or something I can’t remember. He’s telling me all this like it relates somehow to my life or some experience we’d shared. I have no idea. But I say: oh and how is it all going, how are you finding it being here? As if I might relate this statement to some previous knowledge of his life as I pretend to know it. And in my psychotic state I am telling him that I am living nowhere in particular these days and that I have been drinking a lot tonight which he doesn’t seem to find that profound or interesting but I insist that this is important information and somehow will lead us to a point of recognition on my behalf and I feel like I am in a strange dream where a handsome man is interested in me but really he’s someone I’ve never seen before. But I have, in reality, seen this man before but I have no idea where from. What I really want to ask him is a logical question such as: so, god, when was it we last saw each other and he’ll reply with an answer that will ease my psychosis temporarily and we’ll both get on fine from there. But I continue this insane charade with inane questions that lead me no closer to understanding how he and I are connected. I had an affect on him, that much is clear. A small part of my brain is missing that disallows certain people to be lodged, psycho-photographically, for future reference. Names, it’s not just that I am bad with them, it’s not just that, it’s also that I insist on digging myself deeper into a hole that leaves me more and more in the dark as to their identity. But I am happy to leave him as the mystery man. In my madness, it’s a much better place. From this point on, he, like many of them before, moments of passing this body in the street will occur and I will never be satisfied with a name.

JASON