Leonardo Boiko’s Diary

I hate computers. I will sell my computer and buy a guitar. I’m getting outa this bland purgatorium of a city this week and I will be back to the study of art and literature and comic books. I will be a scholar and travel the world and buy a house in Kyōto and have ten boyfriends and ten girlfriends of all colors and sizes and tongues. I will sow the seed of dissent right in the middle of society and watch smiling as my cute spawn disrupts patriarchy from the inside.

I am 0% Pill Leoboiko, and am about to stop existing.

I become fully manifested two or three days after my body goes clean of antidepressants. Once the harshest pains of withdrawal are appeased - once the dizziness and nausea and brain jolts are tolerable enough for me to think - I wake up and look around, take a deep breath and shake my wings only to find I no longer have any. Then I’m overwhelmed by despair so strong I can’t even go through the motions of the basest vital needs, say feeding or getting up. They call it “depression”, this glass cage, this chained blood –I call it insight. I call it reality. I cannot handle it at all.

So I suicide softly with the magic potions, and suddenly the pain is gone and a strange spirit possess this abandoned body. I call him, I call this entity the 100% Pill Leoboiko. 100% Pill Leoboiko doesn’t care much about love or sex or the madness and beauty of art and life, and while he’s not exactly content with selling himself to the corporate religion he’s at least resigned –“have to do it for my family”, he says (myself, I’d be ashamed of presenting such a boring failure of a figure as the model of a family). He’s not “happy” (if such a thing even exists), but he kind of enjoy going home after a day of hard work and watch in silent contemplation as time drips by.

* * *

If I close my eyes, even for minutes, the night-mares catch up with me, rendering me terrified and paralysed and hallucinating alone in the dark.

The Other has no such problems. He’s unable to dream.

* * *

I’m throwing the drugs away, I’m thinking of myself now, I’m taking my life back. Only I’m not, of course. I feel too old to even fantasize about that —thirty years aged in two —I’m swallowing my dearest serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor this very moment. There, good boy, well-behaved boy. I’ll be gone in a few minutes now. Hope you do well, Other; as a last jest, this clown sings for you to remember that—

if the dam breaks open many years too soon
and if there is no room upon the hill
and if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I’ll see you in the dark side of the moon