Sometimes Monday begins on some Saturday morning. There is little movement in the frost, still creeping, and the birds culminate in their violent reprise in the pale cold. The radio drones on with comments on some opinion piece about another opinion, and I don’t care.
Spring is here but I feel it is still on its way.
On such Saturdays, I drive unthinkingly for about 30 minutes in a torpid autopilot kind of way, and parallel park. I wonder what its like driving for ages until all familiarity fades into like a dreamscape, outlandish, no expectations, the weather morphs, and perhaps reality too. Is it still even possible for people to get lost? There are other Saturdays too: Mid-week ones, Friday ones, and Saturday Saturdays with quiet morning breakfasts and fragrant tea-strictly no talk of news or work.
Lately I’m tired, a new kind of tired. Everything is transient but feels monumental. And what is with this general turbulence we all find ourselves suffering? I feel there is an enroaching everpresent vibe, lingering in the mechanisms of all things unfolding, something painful and dulling latches onto every mood.
Only imitations are offered in the artifical warmth of speech. The self reduced to adjectives semblances compressed and formulated. But when words evade, What do you call the commotion stirring within? And those hopeless things on the fringes of sanity, lurking in the dark.
When the ceiling seems to go on forever, and the curtains become cold wind, how do you explain?
I feel at home when it rains, the renewed air a little thick with languid humidity, everybody hasting to shelter, and the stray cat and I, on the edges of the street, counting raindrops. A little meditative synchronicity pushes everything back to the terminals of memory. What did Mr. Cat have to contend with? He never cared to share.
Here, the quiet summer rains still evoke a sense of home-wherever that may be, the same lingering thoughts and sometimes Mr. Cat. For me, home has never been a singular place. Lately, my thoughts possess a different attitude-an attestation to this ageing process, but I’ve always felt catastrophically old.
The fray between mania and insouciance continues ubiquitously, for everybody, but there is little meaning and purpose left on planet earth. We have only little witnessed accomplishments, and hedonistic gratifications left to navigate by, to go from here to there-the hallmarks of a good life apparently.
Those still waiting for better things to happen, don’t despair, do your exercises and go outside from time to time, don’t be a vampire. We live and hope.
This seemingly eternal masquerade to which we’ve all brought our favourite masks, don’t lie…there is a facade being cultivated when we move and talk to each other, and it only slips away a little when we look into the eyes – a little silent understanding, there can never be any pretence there.
A few people in our lives see beyond the veneer, and some people always feel alone, loitering the shadows and looking on forever. Maybe you’ve felt it a little too once, it’s awful, we ought to look after one another better. Sometimes trying to understand a person can feel like roaming alone in the abyss, going farther, mysteries shrouded in more mysteries, and you think they’re probably infinitely cloaked in themselves like that forever. It can be daunting, but they may feel the same way about expressing themselves.
We pretend beautifully: knowledgeable, content, black as night and undismayed. But we all traverse this many-faced yet faceless place in search of the same thing: a little candour.
Some candour from me: I want to only want what I need.