As he frolics about and laughs
without a care.
When he runs and screams in joy
And falls and cries and
runs and screams again.
There is no tomorrow,
no yesterday.There is nothing but this,
And that is all we have, this, the present.
There is no tomorrow and no yesterday.
When you forget this,
Remember the jumping boy.
I can’t bring myself to say what I feel for you. I’ve said it before, to others, and where I thought honey would fill their ears and mine, it left grating sand in my mouth that I still spit to this day. Listen to this song again, really listen. So what do I feel? I’ll just say this: I don’t like you. Do you understand?
I think I know how a drug addict feels, or an alcoholic: that constant ache for the next high, how everything pales in splendour when the needle pierces the skin, when the bottle touches the lips, and heaven seeps into the veins. I sit waiting for a whisper, anything, from her, just to remind myself that I’m still wanted, wanting to be wanted, and with each passing minute, all my thoughts focus on her, how good I feel with her, how alive! And with each moment passing in silence, the longing grows, gnaws; termites crawling up my leg, I brace for the bites, until I can bear it no more. I search for her, falling over myself, clumsy and needy and when I hear her voice, her reassuring words (I believe they’re reassuring, that they’re not just words)….. Bliss, heaven’s kiss on my cheek, her kiss, the sweet sweet agonizing memory of her kiss. For a fleeting, the world becomes bright and blue and gay, and it’s never enough. I want more, and no sooner than her warmth starts ebbing, I’m reunited with my harsh mistress: that constant ache for the next high, how everything pales in splendour, when her lips touch mine, when the needle of her affection pierces my heart and her beautiful pain seeps into my soul.
A silence that words cannot fill grows between us,
A silence that swallows all words,
And empty words are better left unspoken.
And so the silence between us grows.
Coming back to the same place as a different person,
Seeing different things the same way.
It’s a different place and you’re the same person.
Coming back to a different place as the same person,
Seeing the same things differently.
It’s the same place and you’re a different person.
Coming back to a different person as a different person,
Starting as the same person, with the same person,
in a different place and in a different time.
Will things be different?
, everything we do seems justified, and justifiable: the cursing, the screaming, the coldness and aloofness, the general unbecoming behaviour we often exhibit in these tense moments. Our words seem to come from the bottom of hell’s well, and however well-intentioned they may be, they come across as pure bile. In that moment, we forget that we end up hurting those concerned about us, they get burned when they try to comfort, to reach out. And it happens all too fast, we’re barely able to stop ourselves. We dive to catch those arrows in flight, yet they are arrows, and they are fast and sharp and stinging. That’s the easy part. How to say one’s sorry, how to say how to say….. How does one show remorse, the remorse that you feel when you wrong someone? What can one do or say to make it better? And, even when that’s figured out, does it really get better? I don’t think so. I think there’s always a lingering bite, a silent throb, glowing dimly, a constant reminder of the hurt. There’s something to be said for avoiding people when you’re angry or frustrated.
I don’t like my birthday. Well, that’s not completely accurate. I enjoy the fleeting attention and warm regards from family and friends, but that’s it. I do, however, celebrate other people’s birthdays, and I’ll be the first to wish you a good ‘un, when I remember. I find it is a constant reminder of the impending: how time slips like dry sand between the fingers, the sand that will fill up our graves. A memento mori. For the first time in my life I feel that I’m growing old, not growing older. And there’s the constant niggling in my mind that I should be doing much more with my life, that I should’ve done much more by this point.
I recently published my hundredth post. It came, and went without a whimper. Somehow, numbers ending in zero are seen as significant. They aren’t. I haven’t found any empirical evidence that zeroed numbers have any more value than ordinary numbers, as far as our limited existences are concerned. Most of the years, the numbers, we attach importance to aren’t particularly important. It’s all in our minds. Yet, the mind is a powerful thing. It’s the man and woman turning thirty, it’s the man and woman turning forty, and the tick-tock getting tick-tockier, the mosquito in your ear, the cold finger of time slowly tracing a line from your neck down to your back.
There’s still a lot left to learn and to do and it seems there will never be enough time. A sense of a loss not yet experienced, an inexplicable expectation hangs about everything, a constantly-held breath, for a plunge that one doesn’t seem to reach yet comes all too quickly. Maybe the before-mentioned numbers have their place, the zeroed ones: the ten steps and even the smaller groupings of five steps (years). Easy to grasp, to follow, logical and neat progressions. Clean-cut. As adequate and as common-sensical as ever.
They remind us to stretch and to reach before time actually runs out, a reminder that despite our past failings and accomplishments, there’re more horizons waiting to be explored, that we can’t afford to wait. Despite the fear and the doubt, we can’t afford not to dream and to hope, and to do everything we can to not just live on dreams and hope.