The Little Martian has been elusive and empty, avoiding certain songs, avoiding certain paths.
The little martian insists he is perfectly fine but beneath his veneer of "I'm happy, i promise!" there is a strange baffled disillusionment that irks me...
His eyes are still bright and big but a little less shiny, a little less full of hope, and not as eager to scan rooms anymore.
"It's like coming out into the sun after weeks under a rock," he tells me in a rare moment of honesty, " not in like a depressing way, just in a -fuck- the light is bright and it hurts my sore eyes- kind of way. "
I am not quite sure what to tell him , except for that I understand the yucky sledge-hammer after effects.
The little martian looks better every week, his battered brain has regrown itself, and rationality is a welcome balm on his exhausted soul.
"every time I want to descend down that whirlpool again I start writing" the little martian explains to me over a cup of coffee and bowl of soggy muesli, "When you write, you can't hide. You see the facts right there before you for what they really are not the muddled narrative you have spun in the recesses of your mind"
But I know the Little Martian, he isn't one to see the world in shades of black and white. Everything is always vivid and fluorescent with him, layered, endless, beautiful; like a rainbow on crack with a drunken leprechaun dancing beneath it.
" does it help? " I ask him, "rationalizing, does it help? "
He chortles, his first little grin of the morning.
The Little Martian and I aren't known for our realism.
"It's depressing as hell, but it makes sense you know, to see the world through the same laws of logic that the rest of the world does. Makes shit easier. "
I still look unconvinced
"Dull as hell. But easier."
I grin at him, pouring the same zest and hope back into his heart, the way he often does for me.
"Soon...Leprechauns soon! "
He chuckles and snorts like a little pig.
It feels good to have the Little Martian back.
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