Write/Walk. To/With. You/Me.
(January, 17 days passed. Already)
A dark, foggy morning greets me quietly. I pull up my jeans and wrap around a sweatshirt. I slip into my worn out flip-flops and head out into the dewy morning. I can hear Roald Dahl’s words swirl around inside of me as I walk on and on: “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” And find it we must. Find it we will. Sigh. Won’t we?
(18 days have passed. Of January)
I woke up with steel and concrete in my throat. I couldn’t breathe or think. My head spun. Before the whirlpool tried to swallow me back, I rushed out into the arms of dawn. It wasn’t even cold. The blood pumped in my head as I felt a familiar emptiness in the pit of my stomach. How did I ever become thus? How did six months reduce me into this.. or did it reveal me? I thought I’d never be this person again. A small, smug and self-assured voice of reason inside my head prompted an answer, one I didn’t like. Bitch. So, I walked, emptying myself of the panic as I did. I didn’t want to go back home. I broke into a run.
I woke a few hours ago; the muscles in my calves complained and I let them, so I slept again. But now I’m awake.. and high. My head spins: the good kind. I miss certain things. Some others I don’t. Where would we be without music.
What was last night like?
A tale of plastic smiles and sympathetic eyes:
I am at a sixty year old man’s sixtieth birthday party. He is a close family friend and he turned sixty today. His family thought that, being a supposed landmark in the lives of men, it warrants celebration: one at a terrace, unsheltered on all sides, and in it, there are manicured shrubs and potted plants plenty. I barely care for the burst of colours that they exhibit. I lurk in the dark, virgin corners and hungrily stare at the sky. The cold air presses against my skin but I barely shiver. I dearly miss terraces and the long conversations that I used to have with the moon. The food is stale and ordinary. I look at the faces. Those are plentiful too. Some I recognise. Most I do not. The ones that I do, beckon me towards them and taking my hand, flood me with questions. The platitudes never cease to end. I nod and conjure small smiles, lips pressed into a thin line. The man’s wife, the best friend to my mother, takes it upon herself to go an extra mile. She considers me kin and thus tries to introduce me to everyone. I wish her well but I draw the line at ‘She’s the daughter of my friend, the one I told you had cancer’. I drop all pretence, visibly shrug and quickly excuse myself out of another introduction. I go to the dark, virgin corners again. I wish they’d stop telling me that they miss her. I wish they’d stop apologising for saying that they miss her because they think my loss is greater than theirs. I wish they’d all just stop. But they won’t, will they? Every time. It’ll be this. I live in the fear of the impending First Death Anniversary Ceremony. I hate all of this so much, I can barely contain it inside of me. Make it go away. Can I go away? Take me away. There is.. err.. ‘groovy’ music. The kind you would never play yourself but wouldn’t mind if someone else did. I quite like it. I like the terrace too. Everything else I could do without. I could dance. I could run. I close my eyes and relive memories inside my head that spread warmth around that empty pit in my stomach but at the same time, remind me of the steel and concrete that I woke up with in my throat. I crave.. open skies and undying nights. Good music and warm bodies under blankets thick. Three bottles of beer, a cool breeze and a sunset. A small fire lit atop a small summit and a silence shared with the stars above. The smell of railway tracks as the steel rails groan under the weight of movement. I could run.
(20th of January)
The clock just struck midnight. It would be easy to deem these mixed feelings in my heart as love, wouldn’t it? Alas, I don’t think I’m capable of it nor does such a beautiful soul deserve a two-bit bipolar hazard. In any case, it certainly would be easy.. for I would know why I feel off centre so often and why I’m transported back in time to December nights, why I couldn’t concentrate – the one thing I secretly prided myself in – before my finals and why I keep writing everything to a particular person. The muscles in my calves complain still. Tomorrow, I won’t give in.
At night, before we conk out, a friend and I bitch about the world, its weddings and relationships, and then sigh at the ridiculous lack of drama in our lives and how our little problems are terrifyingly run-of-the-mill. [Note to self: Need me some warm loving that competes with my disbelieving, relationship drama that I can win at and marriage threats that I can shrug off! And while we’re still on this topic, need – for real – me some night moves and a ’67 Chevy that I can drive off into the Milky Way!]
Ah, the exhilaration of a seven minute run whilst the world is still nestled in the arms of yesterday! And the purr of the engine as your foot caresses the accelerator. Damn, I could get used to this feeling of empowerment!
Lend me a room on your roof, won’t you?
I drown and not drown. I think and not think. I feel and not feel. I believe and not believe. I care and not care. I depend and not depend. I stand torn between the two opposite sides of every spectrum.
Find me a third way in. You’re the only one who can. Fin.