Have you ever stopped to think about the idea of infinity and realised that it was just too much for your brain to handle? I do it sometimes, and I find my thoughts literally flying through cloudy skies, and then everything resets just like a scratched DVD or a broken record, and it repeats over and over and over 'til I'm starting to believe that I was thinking about nothingness, and not infinity. But they're both the same, if you really think about it. If you multiply zero by anything you get zero. If you multiply infinity by anything, it becomes infinity. Dividing a number by zero leads us back to the concept of infinity, whereas dividing a number by infinity gives us zero. Adding zero to a number leaves the number unchanged. Adding a number to infinity leaves infinity unchanged. I confuse myself. I'm getting brain zaps from my medication and I'm having brain glitches from my thoughts. I guess I started out with infinity and nothingness because every time I try to write, I begin to realise that none of it has any great effect on anything. You can quote the butterfly effect, you can talk to me about how one small step can cause untold changes in outcomes elsewhere, but here we are spinning in circles again, because nobody matters. Maybe I'm having an existential crisis, I don't know, but somehow it soothes me. Nothing really matters. How nice a thought, to think that even the most devastating of consequences will in a short space of time be forgotten. But what I need to say is this: My boyfriend was diagnosed with bowel cancer in February. February eleventh, to be exact. It caused tremendous difficulties for us both, within our relationship and otherwise. He made the trips to get chemotherapy on the bus by himself, a six hour round trip at a time. He still went to work, he still came drinking with me 'til five in the morning. He still smoked like a trooper, and he threw up when he needed to. In private. Because he never told me, at least not until it became clear that he could really die. I feel so stupid, but I honestly never knew. I've been around cancer so many goddamn times and I never guessed it. In retrospect, it makes sense. How he'd be so angry and frustrated with me all the time, how he'd make excuses to not eat, how he'd spend so long in the bathroom and how he'd want to sleep all the time. So he told me last month, after we had broken up in a horrendously disgusting fashion, but before I knew he was ill. I won't get into it, but we treated each other cruelly. It's no excuse, but the fucker should've told me. I could have made allowances. I could have been a better person. What is also worth mentioning is that not only did he not tell me, but he didn't tell anybody else, not his family, not his dog. He's thirty years old. He is my final chance at infinty, and at times promises nothingness. Will he be well again? I can't say. So I do what I do best. I ignore things and I do 'the next best thing'. I got a job. Two and a half weeks later and they let me know that they're considering me for a management position. I forget to feel sad when I'm busy. Sometimes I feel at my worst when I'm busy. I listen to Elton John and Ed Sheeran and Bruce Springsteen and I turn them up louder to drown out the sound of nothingness, but it all becomes infinity when it blends together. We will be okay. We are small and we are large and I can't keep my goddamn self together.