“Where to start is a problem, because nothing begins when it begins and nothing’s over when it’s over, and everything needs a preface: a preface, a postscript, a chart of simultaneous events. History is a construct, she tells her student. Any point of entry is possible and all choices arbitrary. Still, there are definitive moments, moments we use as references, because they break our sense of continuity, they change the direction of time. We can look at these events and we can say that after them things were never the same again. They provide beginnings for us, and endings too.” – Margaret Atwood
I’ve tried to compartmentalise what I’ve been feeling into boxes which need to be packed away, but it’s a mess. leaving in a couple of hours and perhaps I will take time in the air, over bridges, to sort out these thoughts and unpublished letters. As with a new chapter, comes a new space; rejuvenation. I won’t be writing here any longer and I think I’ll exhaust myself filling an archive that has already spilt over. whoever still reads this, thank you. I’ll keep this as a reminder of the person I was, the person I could have been and the person I hope to be. Perhaps I’ll soon find the courage to share my new virtual space, but for now, this needs rest.
so this is it, this is where I begin and end.
In a limbo between what I want and what I have; not sure what that state actually is. Yet, perhaps this state of mind is a never ending cycle, constantly advancing towards the things I desire and leaving behind remnants of what I once desired. essentially, greed.
this first intercourse with what I had once wishfully pinned onto bridges between consciousness and sleep no longer holds the same weight like it once did. so, spin my desires into gravity, always keeping a firm hold on the ground, remaining down to earth. the time has not yet come to take flight, first allow this wind to catch in unfulfilled gaps and indefinite patience.
I guess I was wrong. perhaps the idea of a home is not something demanded to be felt, it’s a natural state of being. try as I might, I cannot shake the feeling of leaving with a clean slate, the past resting on lacquered shelves, collecting dust. because I do not think I’d be able to. it would be ignorant to believe that this past decade has done nothing but provide temporary shelter before the crossing of the bridge. so let me be the one to lighten the burden first, I will concede. concede that this home has allowed myself to grow into a person I never thought I’d become, a home littered with individuals who have touched my life (no matter how insignificant or terrible) in a myriad of ways. they say that school is a place of learning, and indeed there are so many things one can learn in and out of the classroom.
an important lesson: there are an infinite number of digits permeating the value of π; years down the road when there is nothing left but our sandpapered palms and broken backs, let us keep in mind that every fraction of every number of the times we have laughed, cried, loved is part of an unshakeable π that will find no end.
you asked me if it would have been worthwhile, I tell you there is no room for what ifs and could have beens. friend, all we have is now and tomorrow and the days ahead, we will make it count, never allowing our physical selves to be an acting consideration. allow this blossoming friendship to cross negligible continental distance and into the cavities of a brilliant tomorrow. there, I hope you have your answer.
Saw you at the park today – it was in the evening.
2 years gone, and still, that flip flop in my chest (which I presumed extinct) made its way up and did that thing, the way it used to. It felt good. And it struck me that we are no longer the same people – we are chasing different dreams in a similar kind of light. Moving forward, looking back occasionally then picking up speed; one of the few things we happen to have in common. I do not know when I’ll see you again, maybe in another 2 years? 5? Perhaps in one of those Starbucks chains, English rain and all. I will repay you in pence, pounds and question marks; mere fees in lessons you invariably taught me. As long as this 12 year old self lies dormant, a part of you will remain in her childish clenched fists,
Less than a month in an institution I have been in for 10 years. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a home; banners aflutter and that unwavering spirit. you ask me if I will miss home, I tell you that I do not understand. how can one feel at home when she feels claustrophobic beneath wispy smiles and mindless conversation. this is me, looking to leave and to never return. you have served me well – I have returned the favour in plastic gold and dusty newsletters looking to embody the ideals of what the ideal young woman should be. do not be mistaken, let us not part with ill feelings. but simply, an awareness of co-existence. all condensed into occasional emails gushing about landmark installations and the fated 10 year invitation. I thank you for the seeds you have sown, soil for self growth. let this blossom scatter her seeds in the drifting wind, home soil yards away. like an eagle feeling her way through the crudity of rocky cliffs and abrasive winds. I will sing, sing until mountains compress and humidity dries up. let it be relentless. let these songs I sing be a constant reminder of the girl I once was and the woman I hope to become.
happy birthday and many happy returns.
I keep going back to your face, amidst mismatched continental disconnections and warped time zones. 7 days and it has caused a 7 month itch, spreading through my chest to my fingertips once scathed with Italian snow and your milk white skin. I’m sorry my eyes aren’t lidded with an exotic deep set, sorry my jaundice is incomparable to white against white; beauty in paleness, sorry I tied fitted ribbons across the webbed cavities of your foreign palm, dragging you home.
You do not belong here. Not in the sweltering heat, burning a hole in faded mental photographs I have of you. The humidity will wash off whatever colour you had left on your cheeks. Call me naive, and yet I will find you where you are meant to be found. Not in some lousy excuse of a memory, but in an autumn dream; ribbons aflutter before finding escape in the drifting wind.
tell me to take flight
and cut my fingers with
the burns of a plane ticket
caught between foreign pass-ports,
stamped repeatedly with unshed tears.
I will leave you with a contortioned
wave, whisper final
into the the curved shell of a
sand coloured ear.
and let the postcards you send
encompass the rest of
this tacit poem,
before signing off with the
of a new home.
rambles: somehow Europe makes everything seem more magical and fluid and confusing. and maybe that is where I ought to be — besides the fact that it is presently going through an existential crisis.