• 12.09.15
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19:35 and thumbing through thoughts

Giv­en the more the near ten years of writ­ing here, albeit with some long pauses, plus the five years of words that pre­ceded this place, the para­graphs provide few dis­tinct memor­ies. I wrote too many thoughts and not enough of whatever was hap­pen­ing — because, to be hon­est, most of the time very little happened. This place is cer­tainly no kind of diary; in that, it’s deeply flawed.

Some­times, though, there’s a flick­er­ing recol­lec­tion — espe­cially dur­ing the aim­less­ness (and yes, the loneli­ness) of a week­end where exhaus­tion means I can’t bring myself to work and my mind looks too far inward — and I turn to this dis­astrous archive to try and remem­ber if not what was going on around me at the time, at least what I might have been think­ing.

And then there are the people. Those few, those very few — not even requir­ing all the fin­gers of one hand to count — to whom I became very close, much closer, closest. With whom I spent sig­ni­fic­ant peri­ods of my life. With whom I sup­pose one might say I shared love — though as I’ve stated here before, for many years I wasn’t sure what that emo­tion meant or what it felt like to exper­i­ence.

The first: the per­son I nev­er met, though it felt like I did; the per­son I would eagerly have trav­elled the world in order to say a simple hello; the queen who van­ished; the sub­ject of the search that las­ted years; the lack of answers that caused me many a sleep­less night and haunted fre­quent night­mares (and does so even to this day, in truth); the per­son to whom I con­fessed my love.

The second: the escape from real­ity; the per­son with whom this place, where we spent so many week­ends, became a bliss­ful cocoon, where­as it now feels like a pris­on coated in filth and grime; the encour­ager of ideas, of fantas­ies, of cra­zi­er moments; but also the per­son with whom I exper­i­enced some domest­ic nor­mal­ity (and found myself enjoy­ing it, too).

The third: the imme­di­ate ‘click’; the joy­ous, excit­ing, even cap­tiv­at­ing dis­cov­ery of like minds; the secret under­stand­ing that seemed to be there from the very start; the impas­sioned debates con­trast­ing with the black humour; the all too brief times togeth­er; the desire for more minutes and hours of warmth and pres­ence, which were pulled from under­neath me without being told, and which I don’t fully under­stand; the con­fes­sion that I kept hid­den for far too long, all because of stu­pid, stu­pid cow­ardice; the fact that, for me, those feel­ings remain.

These memor­ies, it’s true, offer me some form of com­pan­ion­ship. But I can’t sur­vive forever just look­ing back. The past goes cold, and I find myself feel­ing sickened, needy, vile and worth­less, for rak­ing through those lay­ers of dust time and time again.

I don’t believe I will feel such close­ness again dur­ing my life­time. And I some­times won­der wheth­er the pro­spect, if it exis­ted, wouldn’t scare me wit­less.

I need to steel myself. But I’m too tired to build a fort.

  • Small vic­tor­ies, but I did man­age to stay away from the abyss of my own mind until about 6.00pm this even­ing. Which, giv­en it’s a week­end and I can’t face work­ing, it’s fairly remark­able. It was only as dusk drew in that I unfor­tu­nately remembered myself and began dwell­ing on thoughts of the past.

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