For the happy man! - Collected writings DEPRESSION: Ed Atkins

Occasionally, when I’m drifting off
to sleep, I imagine a razor blade
gliding silently – steered by some
anonymous hand – along the central
seam of my scrotum. As it does
so, the weight of my testicles makes
the wound yawn apart, eventually
opening wide enough to disgorge
the contents, which spill across the
sheets between my legs. It’s a recurring,
pre-slumber thought that,
once imagined, loops unresolvedly;
finally subsiding with the onset of
unconsciousness. I lie there as an
unfortunate patient lies on the operating
table: my senses dulled by
an anesthetic fug while my perception
continues to function – albeit
like a strobe – from some terrible,
detached, forensic perspective. I am
visually privy to every glimmer of the
razor’s edge, every tautening of the
skin; every dull slippage of gore beneath
the duvet. The physical sensation
is equally murky: somewhere between
the reflexivity of a wretch upon
seeing someone else vomit; and the
subliminal shiver induced by certain
pieces of music. It feels internal and
nervous – sparking inside every muscle
and bone like live copper wiring
lining my veins and penetrating my
marrow; hollowing me out and pitching
me into absolute sensation.