Departures are often destitute, void of the things that seem to sometimes matter in the mayhem. Maybe that’s because there’s so much magic in the arrival of things. When the time finally arrives to leave, the process of being makes it feel like there’s nothing left but goodbyes.
But goodbyes are supposed to be ‘good’ right? Isn’t that why we call them such? And yet it all just feels too much, and so there’s a space that seems like emptiness.
I look at my garden. It’s full of life, and smells smokeable, edible and green. I like that I have a garden.
When I come home, I always look at the apartments inhabited by my neighbours… no greenery, just rubbish bags, laundry and standings on their balconies having cigarettes, the way I used to.
I don’t smoke no more, I gave it all up… well mostly. I think it has been almost a month, maybe even more, and I feel good that I managed those departures well. Every so often during that time I have shared a joint, or a cone with friends, but that’s only the memory of all of the mangled years. I don’t want my life to be death all of the time; I do not desire the prospect of an unavoidable void that will continue to haunt me as the minutes pass me by. Every time I have had a smoke, I haven’t enjoyed it the ways I used to, and the next day I have felt tired, emotional and lacklustre. At those times I feel like my glow has dimmed, and that the dire ways of the past have begun to bubble to the surface, where they simmer their seething sadness.
Sometimes, I image all kinds of monsters, but they are my goblins, fairies, demons and devils… they are the things I need to get over myself.
I have been struggling for nearly a year to write a paper. Every day it has hung there, waiting for me to write it so that it can be published. I have already signed the publisher’s agreement, and they are waiting for me to send it to them in a few days time. At first when I put it off, when I procrastinated, when I pretended that I could keep on pretending that it wasn’t something I really had to do, I felt bad about myself. Now, with only five more days to craft it into existence, I feel a lot better about the ways I have avoided my task. For the past few days I have been waking up with new ideas and brighter visions for what I envision and I realise that for nearly a year, that paper has been writing itself in my head, along with strategies I need to make it a less daunting task. Today, the truth has emerged, and I know now exactly why I spent so long thinking rather than writing. As my deadline looms, I feel far more confident about the things in my head that I need to transform into words, because they are worlds of their own that have needed time to twist their orbits into gravity. I do not give in, instead I give myself praise these days, because I deserve it.
A lot of people think that my life is a holiday, but I get a hella amount of work done by spending time just calmly thinking things through. I manage in mighty ways to float long enough; the lingering lets what needs to happen, happen all by itself.
Today is a writing day, and after I go to the supermarket to get some breakfast, lunch and dinner, I will manipulate theory into practice.
It’s your funeral fictions. I have covered you all in gold, merged you with myself, placed wreaths of roses at your feet and laid you to rest.
All the best.