“Every Sha-la-la-la, Every Woah-woe-oh.”

 "If one is to dream,

it is no use being too adverse 

to nightmares."

I’ve been steering clear of blank pages. All that space for more space. An invitation for time spent homing in on aches and pains. Wondering what parts of the body don’t work as they used to. What pieces of information have departed entirely? Names, promises, important dates, the minutes that have passed since I poured oil into the frying pan that grows increasingly angry about my neglect on the stove. More often than not, the bath water is tepid by the time I get around to testing the water temperature with my foot. It’s not that I am particularly busy, I am merely distracted. I am interested in how all of this feels ten or twenty years from now. In my sixties, a relaxing warm sensation reminding me that I was meant to piss. Empty hands at a close friend’s birthday celebration and I have no idea who I’m standing next to or how we got there. Things escape me until they can no longer be escaped. 

The passing of time has become more of a steady hum than anything else. Its rhythm is accentuated by the steady thud of music that is everywhere. Perhaps oxygen itself has become so afraid of silence that it invites the wind to bring it noise. If we are all little bundles of vibrating energy, then might we have inspired the lifeless void around us the take up our dreadful habit of hiding from ourselves?

The distinctions between people are getting clearer. The wonderment of strangers has long passed. These ideas that we are all rich with ideas and unique experiences, they are all nonsense. Perhaps not at first, but eventually. All the lengths these people go through to attempt to strike up some notion of individuality. All they have proved is that there are weak insane people and strong ones. You can learn to live and build upon that leering sense of alienation. You can find something to become. Or you can run. Run anyway you can. As the years pass, the human race seems to have dedicated its resources to finding and promoting new ways to run. And eventually, as we come to realise that the finish line is ever-shifting, we get tired. When you eventually have to face something you have been running from, you will likely face something that resembles an enemy. The weak and the strong. That uncomfortable divide that we compose meaningless rhetoric to defend our positions with. 

…

George chose the table directly next to ours despite the fact that we were sitting in an empty restaurant. He also decided to sit with his back to the entrance so that he was facing us, albeit slightly to the side. I always find it strange when men position themselves in such a way, blind to any unexpected threat that might enter a room. He was Canadian, in his 70s. Eager to disclose the many successes of his life. He thought I was much younger than I am, and I had no interest in correcting him. I like for people to think that my idea of being busy is playing video games until the hangover clears just enough to sink a few beers while a techno DJ plays that steady predictable thud that somehow resonates deep down with who I am, who we all are. I have no interest in sharing what page number of Dostoevsky I last turned over, or what question about who I am has been turning over in my head so much so that I have to turn the page back in an attempt to re-absorb what I read, but didn’t really read. It’s much easier to be a young idiot who likes the gym and hashtags. George, sipping his frozen margarita, said “Where do you go from up?” It was rhetorical. He had just finished listing his accomplishments, which had begun with him being born in the last generation before life got shitty. They had included marriage to a Miss Canada, a long list of countries visited and the selling of his house for $1.4 million after buying it for under $100k. The wonderment of strangers has long passed.

Please, never consider yourself interesting. And if you do, then just write. Give people the option of hearing just how interesting you are. Don’t go and find new sets of ears with which to share your story. We flew back from Ho Chi Minh after a day of sorting out various papers for our marriage. That’s right. We’re getting married. When we are lying together with our two dogs stretched out in the spaces we leave for them I feel something I thought I never would. It is not a permanent feeling, there are moments when I remember my ties to loneliness, but in those moments, and some others, I feel like I’m a part of something much more important than this silly little head and its ideas. Pardon the cliche dramatics, but I have something worth dying for. Someone worth dying for. It’s pleasant, albeit a little unsettling. This is where we have to just learn to roll with the passing of time and embrace it moment by moment, I suppose. It feels as if this might be the point at which we begin to develop a more egoless view of the world. The point at which we become a part of a greater whole. Anyhow, I digress... We shared the flight back to the island with two young British males who had been knocking back cans of beer in the departure lounge. Our flight had been delayed by around three hours. This isn’t important, what I’m trying to say is don’t allow yourself to be convinced that you are interesting enough to be of interest to others. But, should you develop such a way of thinking, just write. Don’t go seeking out altered mental states where this feels more so than it probably is. Don’t shout out sound bytes of badly formed ideas in enclosed spaces because they entertain what little there is of you to be entertained. 

All these moments of significance, and here I am quibbling again. Enraged by the presence of un-wiped sweat on gym equipment and late-night karaoke performances. Drunks and questionable life choices. The drivers of cars and selfie-takers. Inconvenience and meaninglessness. Maybe that is what scares me, to become what I see in so many. Inconvenience and meaninglessness. Or am I just mortified by the fact that that’s all I can see when I look around?  

Let’s wrap this up, the digestive process is taking away from my train of thought. I’ve mentioned this before somewhere, but what I see is a lot of what I realised I needed to leave behind. What I see is what I have been. That is what I notice most. Perhaps it is out there in abundance, or perhaps I’m just overly sensitive to it. I am quite enjoying my still life, I am enjoying how boring it might appear. Time feels like something to be passed until something needs to be created, which I suppose is what I am doing now. The dog walking, the gym sessions, the eating. All those things to keep the body and mind moving forward until I am called upon. That is how the process works. There is no searching for any of it. It just appears and demands attention. Every sentence, lyric and melody writes itself. All I have to do is make myself available for as long as it needs me. I hate to hear of people struggling over unfinished work. I can go for months. I once went thirteen. The breaks between output are essential, and what is paramount is that you create some meaning in those spaces. Don’t be just a writer or a painter. There is much more to build. Make a city of yourself. Otherwise, it is only a matter of time before you run dry. 

Right. I have had enough of this day. I have felt heavy. Sluggish in fact. I see less and less point in being awake after 8 pm. I’m not sure, but perhaps all those activities of the night… They seem to be designed to make a person feel good about not facing themselves. Glorified escapism, three cheers for very little. I suppose I feel as if I’m bragging a little when I say this, but… I much prefer the quiet darkness of 5 am when there is nothing apart from who I am, undiluted, unchanged, moving around quietly. Not attempting to escape anything as my being grows into the day. At peace with the steady flow of time and as connected with the notion of peace as I am with the monsters within me.