… That I am sitting here today, when others are not. They lie beneath the ground, in respite and soil and bones, and I listen to Alex Parks’ take on “Mad World,” and remember that year, that November afternoon of charcoal sky and stick-rain, the hurtling heavens, the children in their thick macs and thin high voices that could tear my heart in two, if I’d had enough to rend.
And I want to sleep, so much, in that soil of dreams; where the only turbulence is the worms, come to let me know I’m not immortal. I want to find that blank space behind my eyes, where I hid for so long; when I didn’t care, and the world looked the other way, because I was appalling to see and loud in my silence. I was stark and staring and hidden beneath every radiator, shivering to the little candle of the heart, flicker-flame –
New one. Old One. Time spent trying to read, to write, and it comes about again, that distraction … only this time, it isn’t numbers of calories, steps taken, steps mounted, times spun before sitting down (oh OCD, you plied me as a fish on a hook)
Now it is love, and life, and finding others in both. Time spent checking and hoping and reliving and dying a bit more inside, each day, each moment; it is running towards and pulling away. It’s wanting to give so much of myself, while aching to be alone. Under that soil. With the others who didn’t make it, and still – one decade on
(that afternoon, it was a lifetime of tomorrows)
my feet still hurt, and I laugh at my own reflection with a barbed fence for a smile. I still get delusional and know myself for a fool. I’ll never grow old because I’ll never grow up.
Immaturity comes in both hands, with dirt under each nail.
Love. Loss. Gain. Weight. Shame.
And still, this mad world goes on … I quietly follow its path, with red hair and red eyes and charcoal heart. It wants to sketch your face, to know the truth of your namesake; where you’ve come from and where you go. What dreams you had, which you cling to still, while your own heart grows dark with the lowered sky of the morning, the Ever-Day which strikes out the match of your hopes.
You know the night as well as I.
Hm. It’s been a long time coming. This year, this decade, this finding myself in adult life; wishing it belonged to someone else. Grateful, on the American cousins’ Thanksgiving, that I am still here … and still … and still.
Grateful for the sleep I do get. Wishing I could bring the others back. Wanting to let go, of a great many things.
You know the silence of forever? It has a laugh like a stone dropped in a well.
Not happy, not sad. Just bewildered, that I remain, while others walked on.
But the night’s got a fresh breeze, and I have Dr Seuss.