Tuesday, 4 January 2011


Do you ever wake up some days with your head feeling so light you need to hold it so it doesn't float away from your neck? It happened to me this morning and for a few seconds I wondered if I was very sick. But I didn't feel sick. The pain had left, my body felt like a spring. I then wondered if I was very sick in the head and then whether I was dead. Mother screeching in my ear right then assured me I wasn't. I got out of bed and then I didn't know what to do with this newness, so I had a bath with icy water. Then I cried for 20 minutes and polished all my shoes.

By this time I started feeling more like myself but not at all too. I thought about calling my friends and talking about it. But I realised I'd need to first spend a lot of time apologising for having not been in touch and ignoring their calls. I definitely didn't feel like doing that. So I decided to write down describing words for this feeling. I thought of 'nothing', 'cold' and 'white'. Fat lot of help that was. Then a voice - it sounded like my inner voice with a sore throat - made a very valid point: why was I trying so hard to know what it was? To know its last name and where it was coming from? Why wasn't I just enjoying it and using it to propel myself? The answer was simple enough. I didn't know how to. I was being that guy who dove into every last annotation of the scriptures because he once saw an angel and didn't know to just sit in her light and maybe ask if she had any experience with the Meaning of Life.

So I stopped and went about my day unquestioningly. And it was good. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, and it was the best ordinariness I've experienced in a while. For one, I was present. I knew what I was doing, I was inside every moment, not walled out with my nose pressed to it helplessly. It was like I could taste the tea I made (godawful), I looked at mother and saw the thousand wrinkles she''d grown while I wasn't looking. Even dog looked real and he passed some really real wind too. I promise I'm not going mental. Or maybe I am. But I don't feel so bad about it. Flailing means I'm alive. I can't even tell you just how okay I am with that.

Now that all that darkness has scooched over just a bit, I can focus again and think about you often and with all this love I didn't know I had. I'm not trying to scare you, I would never make you the victim of my light bulb moments. I just want to hold your hand once more, scratch at your calluses and not talk at all. Could this ever be?

J, I won't stop writing to you. I believe when the hammer of our desire insists upon the universe again and again, eventually it will tire and yield. I will see you again in this lifetime.

Till then,

I remain yours.

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