Over time, real time, life has segmented me in sides and faces with very vague definitions. I sense that there are things about me that are routinely yet obscurely fed to a vending machine which gives me newer passions, different interests in return. Maybe I can trace it back to “when” but “why” is draped in nights when I lay awake with a dream in mind, and the next morning seems to blur it into a background that slowly fades into wallpaper that needs to be torn down because it’s just not as pretty anymore.
The ‘why’ is so much harder than the ‘when,’ but December raises the downy hair of yesterday on the back of my neck. No embrace for the girl of that calendar month, just a sigh of resignation and despair that rustles all the other pages of the calendar. My eyes see a whole year of good intentions and failed dreams that cling so desperately to that wall and under my skin. It’s like the realisation that last New Year’s hope was just an impulsive mistake and I forgot to make any brightened resolutions.
And it becomes an yearly abstraction, a push that plummets fractions, breezeblocks, out of an otherwise linear tower of reality. I look back at the lost pieces, and with what may be an illusion of growth, smile. That ache seems so small, unimportant, and what I have now seems okay for a minute. Maybe longer. Depends on the length of the song I listen to, and the longevity of the setting sun.
I can only say it in a whisper but this year has magnified the aches that have lingered for a lifetime. There’s a desperation in looking for the missing pieces in the fading colours of the sunset. In the hungry chaos of noisy gulls, I try to collect my crowded thoughts into groups of words that might ease my chapped lips and pour my coffee in the morning. I string them into necklaces and charms made of sentences – poems of moonless Septembers and melancholy Sundays. That way I can at least look at tomorrow without shielding my eyes.
There is something about words strung together in a sensible philosophy. Its incomparable to have had times in your life that sharpens its blunt edges and cuts into parts of you, refreshes everything somehow, and becomes strange to look at. Like gawking at your reflection on the mirror plated wall of a hair salon, while the barber keeps trimming your hair in a really bad way but all you can do is investigate your face and strike your eyes with a gaze they obviously meet. Just to realize, that it’s all there what needs to be, what isn’t, will grow back with more original strands and fibres. There’s always a road to walk towards everywhere, and since ‘all roads lead to Rome’, why does anybody worry.
As we nudge December I look at the ocean and ask it this question. Sometimes my catastrophic mind is too primed to see the tragedy in a gust of wind, to tread water when I need to swim more purposefully to my metaphoric Rome. The sea answers me in soothing syllables of its rolling tides, calmly led by sing-song directions from the moon. And there I see that maybe there is a path for me, that I am connected by gossamer threads to possibilities I have always longed for but never thought I’d find. Love, even. I just need to dive in and let the wind swallow up my caution and taste the salty water of the dawn.
The sea has all the answers, it’s like a friend for all seasons. It’s funny to think that whatever is marked by anything doesn’t make sense to anything except the candle and the lighter, or the sea and the rocks it washes away from the shoreline. So, we ramble on and gamble with our hearts, and tear pages, anatomies away from old chapters and our memories become a collage of these broken bones. So, in our search for love and happiness, we see too many disappointment and aches but to not linger on them would be best. At least, that’s what I think.
So maybe as the clock ticks this time, we should linger in that place where soft lanterns and gentle hands light and guide the darkened alleys of our hearts. Maybe it’s in that dim but shimmered glow that we find a stillness and a beauty. A calm within our storms where there is no pitch black or bright white and there is an infinite wave of connections between all of us. Because surely, it seems that this is where we should linger, in that place where the paths lead us to each other.
By Watt and myself.
Always an honor to write with Watt.
Happy new year to all of you, I hope that this new decade brings all that you would hope for.
Also, I am behind in my reading… I will be catching up as soon as I can. I look forward to it.