I find myself in a once-in-a-blue-moon moment where I can clearly see my own existence as both past and future, but not present. This liminal space-time, it happens when you know something has ended, and, necessarily, something else is beginning, but you know not what, not yet. Witnessing the end, step by step, each domino in itself, somehow translates into this tragic movie that plays in my mind every time I allow it to drift too far. I will not attempt to frame this witnessing as beautiful. It’s blood and guts, stuff not everyone’s got the stomach for. It is not for the weak to love so fully and thus lose entirely. The weight of it buries me. A love that consumes you is a love that leaves you to ashes. Meanwhile, the world screams at me GET UP! GO FORTH! AIM FOR THE HEAD!
I guess I can sum it up by saying that I spent the last three years in a Smith’s song, and, dear, that double decker bus finally crashed into us. Even writing this feels strange already, as there is no us and there hasn’t been for months now, but I suppose the strangeness settles in with each goodbye. And I have the sore feeling that I’ll be writing about it often enough. It’s the only way I’ve found to put the weight down. The road ahead is adorned by ashes from a past still burning, but it is a road ahead, no less, and I walk on, as I have before. The clock’s been ticking, and it tells me the time has come.
For once, I realise that being well versed in loss isn’t just an unfortunate trait that I carry like a burden. In this space between past and future, I feel the familiarity of myself. All the past versions of myself that coexist here meet me at this crossroads, and they greet me with stern handshakes that carry a weight of responsibility. I can see now that this is why I have the stomach to feel, to be bled dry, and not trip over my own guts while doing it. I learned early-on to let the blood run its route. After all, “the only way out is through”. From a young age, I took it upon myself to go through, and I took it like an oath.
I realise now that there is no becoming who I once was. It doesn’t add up. All these versions of myself are different, I mean, sure, they’re tangled into one another by a common essence, but they are incredibly unique to the time and space they inhabit. And it is the common essence of myself that I must build on – and I can feel it again, finally. The woman I was, she isn’t fit for this role. So, this is me, stepping up. I went through and, as if that wasn’t hard enough, there’s more work to be done: leaving behind. Putting some of this weight down and walking ahead. I tend to carry all of it with me, and some of it I’ll carry ‘til I die. But I know I must move. As I witness my own return, I feel my lost strength building itself up again.
Give me a gun and throw me in the trenches, folks. I know my way around.
unpleasant conversations 