One of those weeks

I stopped caring. About all the things I lost, all the faces I forgot… and all the stories that were washed away… splattered ink… red and all horns like the devil. I stopped dying. Killing myself again and over again… for the sake of asking the same questions again and again.

I stopped falling in love with falling in love.

Instead I opened a new page, wrote a new chapter, prefaced it and let it end on a cliffhanger.

I stopped falling in love with my destruction. I stopped falling in love with romance gone ugly and began to really ask what I wanted, knowing what I very explicitly do not want. I stopped to admire the flowers, the beliefs with deep roots, spirits of trees with tall branches.

I hit pause for a while and asked why I write the things I do. I hit snooze for a while and sleepily listened to the storm outside my window. I get up, woozy and unbalanced and get on because I must do something important to me.

People rush to cram themselves into 7am trains. I feel sad for them. There’s an implicit feeling of being in the everybody else is doing this train.

I like the couple of travellers who aren’t part of this routine because they smile.

I fall asleep.

Worlds sift, change and emerge.

I’m here. Hours fly by.

I candidly speak of Saturn and Pluto meeting in the sky like two opposing archetypes getting into the same boat as the day comes to a mountain moving, slow yawning close.

Words and realisations come through with clarity for me. I didn’t realise Mercury could be on my side but there goes my propensity to personify. I know planets don’t take sides.

Someone asks me twice in the same day if I’m vegetarian. I say no. I prefer to avoid eating meat but I’m not a vegetarian, I explain.

I know the layers of my choice and the whys of them but what really matters is that I like the feeling of my choices.

And as the crazy week comes to a slow meandering, soft landing… I remember I cried three hours straight this week and felt raw and crystal clear the next day. Kind of like waking up with a clarity you can feel in your body. Surprise took a gentle hold of me as I observed this. It was like I cleared out the debris.

People don’t remember what you say to them… but how they felt with you. I remember thinking I’ve changed. For the first time in my life I gave myself permission to cry without forcing myself to stop. I hear my grief and I know deep down of its existential roots. Meaning made out of life’s events… and within them, my capacity to feel… surprises even myself. It never emerges until it really emerges… the human body’s capacity to carry and hold so much grief.

It’s familiar.

Briefly I encounter the notion of quitting this life again. It passes across my mental landscape like a tease on the breeze, gone the next day.

I remembered a lovely conversation in the park with the light dappling through the leaves as the very cliche phrase I was going to use to remember the feeling.

Cliches are shortcuts.

Respect. I felt so much respect for the wisdom of those here before me and the work they’ve done and continue to do.

Ten years from now, I will remember this as one of those weeks.