My partner and I discuss our status before sleep.

“So the psychiatrist? She did not die.”

[⛨ ⛦⛜ ⛚⛏]

“From the thought that kills, yes.”

[⛿❙ ❝❧ ❥]

“Yeah, I guess that does mean it isn’t real. Probably.”

[⛶✑ ❥❣❣❟❘ ❢]

“No, I’m not going to tell you what the thought is. It was a one-time thing.”

[⛴⛴⛴ ⛷✘ ⛰⛰⛯]

“Just because it didn’t kill her doesn’t mean it isn’t a real killing thought. It’s a gut instinct; I’m not gonna risk killing you.”

[⛐⛒⛠ ✃✗ ⛯]

“Yeah, it is supposed to help, but I’ve gotta wait a week to see any effects.”

[⛜⛚ ⛰⛰ ⛥⛠⛘ ⛕⛓⛓]

“One Milligram. I’d be surprised if it does anything to my fat ass.”

[✎⛥]

“True. Maybe I am a lightweight.”

[₨₪₲£¢⅁∁∑∀∅✪✥✣ 🈨🜶🜦⛱⛾⛬⛸❍⛑⛚ ⛍⛒⛧⛦⛫⛫⛧⛴⛷⛻⛩⛡ ⛝⛝⛚⛚⛞⛞✃✃⛼⛼✗✗⛧⛧ ⛫⛫⛱⛱❐✛⛶⛶⛶⛶⛦⛦❚❚❍❍. . .

Faster than I could’ve ever expected, I fall into a deep slumber—one which I cannot will myself to wake from until deep into the next afternoon after fighting my dreams, beating my eyes awake, jostling my entire body onto the floor in order to look alive. Later that day, I wander over to my pill organizer in a drowsy haze and make a note to myself: Do not mix the antipsychotic with the muscle relaxer. If possible, discontinue muscle relaxer.

Six weeks out and only now, finally, seeing care—being provided the electrochemical means to shut off the killing thought, the visions of the void, the unenviable experiences of the dead. My main regret is that I wish I weren’t agnostic; if an episode like this were to come around and blow up my whole life, I’d at least have been able to fast-track my way through some holy orders for three square meals and a bed provided by the archdiocese. No, my killing thought is a secret of pure nonsense.

Soon, I will lose my memory of these weeks; all the hours of reflecting on the meaning of the hallucination will be flushed away like shit down the pipes. According to the killing thought, our ability to forget is the greatest gift of all.

With that in mind, maybe it would not hurt to let someone else in on the secret. After all, killing thoughts aren’t real, and there is nothing to be afraid of. They cannot be shared via chain letters or essays, which mangle your mind until you forget how to beat your own heart. No. They are not real, and you have never seen one in your entire life because they are not real. You have never been unstuck from time by a killing truth, had your matter pulled forwards and backwards by the strain of living. Again, because they are not real.

With that in mind, the killing thought, the single, undeniable truth of life is this: When it happens, it feels like you’reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee as xzc

Zxcnbde

Bxcbcxvcx

````

Just kidding.

It would be inadvisable to expose the brain to stimuli as existential as the killing thought.

Though, perhaps some jokester already has exposed all of us to it, and we’ve just forgotten.

Because the ability to forget is the most beautiful one of them all.

Juniper Mars is a multimedia artist based out of Chicago. Her greatest accomplishments include getting noticed by you and getting out of bed this morning. She can be found at @Bebopally on Instagram and Bluesky, where she is hopelessly addicted to posting.