As I write this, I sit down at an outside table. I take my jacket off. The wind blows. I put it back on. I start writing. I stop. I start again. Back space. Back space. Back space. I pick up everything and go and sit inside.
I’m going. No, I’m staying. I’m taking it. I’m not. I get it. I don’t.
There is much to be said about decision-making. There are some things in life that cannot be decided with an eight ball, angels or ching chong cha.
Being restless is starting on the right hand side of the bed, rolling over to the left and ending up at the foot. And the harder you search for comfort, the more the bed sheets tangle you.
The Guardians of my Universe are shaking their heads in dismay and every now and then letting out a loud guffaw. “Look at this silly girl,” they seem to be saying.
They shuffle around hurling obstacles in my way, only to clear my path, only to put up ‘Wet Cement’ signs. They’re amused and I’m not listening.
I’m too caught up with fear, doubt and hope. And lamenting my old self that leapt off the ledge as they shouted: “3,2,1, bungeeeeee”.
Last night a man grabbed my ass at a bar and fought with me over my occupation of a barstool. What a lowly human specimen – Neanderthal, Beast, Cretin. I fought back throwing words at him instead of the barstool I so desperately wanted to lodge between his vacant eyeballs and then I proclaimed loudly to the barman: “Do you make it a habit of serving assholes at this bar?” The caveman’s brother then told my friend: “Your friend needs to loosen up a little. She’s so uptight”.
Who would have thought that assholes could be transporters of wisdom? The brute at the bar was right (not in his behaviour of course, but in some indirect analysis of my own bullshit). Maybe I’m taking all of Life a little too seriously at the moment. In some kind of Wordsworthian way, the world is too much with me.
We create our own rules, our own limitations and our own liberations. What difference does it make to anyone? And why do I carry this undue pressure like bricks in a satchel? When someone said: “Live each day as if it were your last”, I don’t think they meant that The End lies waiting in a spacious, airy, one bedroom two blocks away.
The wisest man in my life reminded me: “It’s okay to say, ‘Stop the world, I want to get off’.” I do. Just for now. Just till the winds have stopped rattling my windows, till the nights are less restless and just until I’m okay with indecision.
Should I end here? Or keep writing? Urggh! It doesn’t really matter, now does it?