I wanted to write something about how I felt lately. I took so long because I don’t know what to say.
This thing is a new color.
This thing has an odd calm.
It’s as if my future ghost moved into my heart early, with a bunch of bags at the door, and said, Let’s have tea a while. There’s some stuff we have to talk about.
This thing is stopping being in denial, stopping wishing for the past and just being. And for once I don’t feel pain every day in my heart. I’ve no good reason why, because the here and now has not gotten all that much better, really…. but somehow I, in the midst of this have somehow been either transformed or just molded a bit. And I can’t tell how to tell it because I don’t care to tell anyone anything now, and I feel like there’s no point in explaining something that had so many subtle moves, more than a Reich minimalist work of song. It took so long it was just like growing, because — that’s what I suspect it must be. It’s a hand unfurling and the rope slipping away; it’s touching something warm that may or may not be friendly, It’s making me make odd decisions.
This feeling is making me recognize I am staring down the endside of my life. I need to decide what it is, and who I am with regard to it.
I have no children to rein me in. I have no certainty of anything, with possible exception of a companion husband.
And even that’s possible. I have the worldly belief of the appointed number of years dealt out to an individual like a vacation. I have this older baggy body. Am I the child or this new thing? This hybrid? I have these things I have to think about now, that I never actually ventured to think about. For some it’s death…. But you see, as a Goth, I dealt with that long ago. It’s not that.
It’s the life. The remaining life. The stuff you don’t think about. The just-what-will-you-actually-do-at-the-end-of-the-world thoughts. Especially when the world will go on tiny ticking incrementally, and you’ll stammer a bit, and away it will all go, and the leaves will fall, and there you won’t be anymore, and it’s not YOU you have to think about, it’s the others. You wonder what it will mean to them that you are here or not in your new olde body, or whether there is something else that will seize your energy and make you renew your youth every morning and there will be some kind of sunbirth. Whether you will always stay a child, or not.
Whether your old dreams will rule your life and your bitterness and make your realm of truth tainted or holy with steadfastness.
Whether they will change and off you will skate on some new thin ice. What will you keep or forget?
Those who have the discipline and the insanity of children have the luxury of being distracted from such things, but I have it facing me now, early. I have to look at the silver corridor and decide the rest of the dance, and it was a place I never was certain I’d be in, in the first place. And certainly not alone in this shiny hallway, this vestibule, this bleakly polished old passage.
It’s quiet in here. You can sing with a great echo in here.
But the fact now comes to me with great clarity and in an emotionless calm: I will be alone in this no matter what. There is no going out with someone. You will ultimately go alone. The meaning of everything will not arrive in a group discovery encounter.
I often do not much like what I have become; ‘it’s the wrong world, I must be on the wrong planet’, sang Todd.
I sang in my chains like the sea, said Dylan. Time held me green and dying. And puzzling the while.
Puzzling evidence.
I see myself wiser than I have ever been, and yet with far fewer heads to turn or ears to bend than ever were in younger days. I don’t know at all anymore what I’m for.
I really wonder whether this should go on? or do i just whistle a tune and polish the floor with a few turns of my heels, ……….,
……….,
……….,
, and wait.
and see what happens…
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