Having recently watched “Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence” for the first time since Uni, I’m once more in love with the theme. Humming it incessantly around the Nick, I at last surrendered my purse strings *how they groan of late* and bought the damn single on iTunes. Now I can at least hum it in full.
So of course, I’m embracing old memories of Morricone’s “Chi Mai”
and everything Japanese springs to life like cherry blossoms. I’ve had a hankering for this country since childhood. Nothing (well, not much) to do with the mangas I used to read, the anime I’d get lost in. More, it was the elegance woven into the fabric of its nature; the effortless walls of Fuji, the crisp snow-lit lines; the delicate blossoms trailing like heartbeats through the air, in that season when it’s not so much oxygen as perfume you’re inhaling. The simple honour of being, which seems instilled in Japan’s children.
Of course, I’m a hopeless romantic 😉 But allow me these painful indulgences. I look for what entrances my mind.
Boredom has never been a weight I could bear for long. And I am so very, very bored. It’s seeping through my cells like cancer, flowing out of my pores in the forms of irritation and depression. I short-change people on good humour. Not so much at work – there, I can smile and tick off points of goodwill, play the dutiful drone with a cherry heart (I meant to write cheery, but liked the mistake better.)
To the world in general, I’m presenting more of a tired outrage at the banality of Being Me.
As mentioned before in previous entries, I have problems with keeping still. Also, with routines. These are problems of the highest order, when combined with my frivolous heart and natural curiousity. I want to be out exploring, all the time; to be crossing oceans at high speed, paying respects to old gods in ancient temples worked over with twisting vines. I want to be weaving in and out of colourful, spice-filled markets and bazaars, heart pounding in rhythm with local drums.
But instead, I see the same stretches of stained carpet, feel the weight of each file digging into my hands, getting my palms stuck on the same coffee stains every week. And yes, I’m much aware that this is the age-old cry of the belittled, downtrod worker who never got outside their own country, who for years wondered why the world wouldn’t just Pay Up. I know it must be insufferable for you to read. But I’m going to say it anyway, because where else can I offload otherwise? Alcohol numbs the pain of ennui only so much.
I lose myself. In writing, in thoughts of writing, in daydreams about people, in rum, in inexpensive purchases of novelty value, in exercise, in eating enough to keep up with said exercise. Round and round it goes. I still know where it’ll end, one day. If I don’t get out. Suicide isn’t a new concept to me. But it’s not a glad friend, either.
I’m too strong for that. And just too bored. To take my own life? I’m an extremist. It’s always one or the other. No dull middleground. That’s what almost killed, and ironically saved me in the end. I hated hanging in the balance. It was either death via slow decay (agonizing), fulfilling no dreams other than those of the calculator and scales; or it was to embrace life again, to the fullest, to her richest extent. If I could just flick the switch! Make my mind whole, sane again. What is “sane”, anyway? I was never classified as insane. Only “broken,” as one doctor put it.
Fractured minds. They’re not as easy for society to accept as a limb done up a sling.
I was never deemed a “proper girl”. I climb trees, eat too quickly, have little interest in make-up or clothes, except to cover the flesh and bone.
More than anything, I crave change; seek it wherever possible, while finding the change in routine abhorrent.
That’s the paradox, lieblings, of never being satisfied 😉 It keeps everyone on their toes.