Life is never kind, not to me, not to anyone. But today,
after hours of work I grabbed a bottle of prosecco and a pack of
menthols and I sat down. And as I carried on with work, and tried to make
sense of a science that is alien to me, I did the unexpected. I touched my
face, the face of a 32 year old, and it was young. I held my hips like Cpt
Janeway, and they were beautiful. I thought of myself for a second, not the one
facing out, me, the one that fights. And it was incredible and challenging, not
angry or frowning. And I am made of the young and the old, the clever and the
wise. And that makes living just perfect. I've touched the unknown and came out
unburdened, just like Alice. Not entirely unspoiled...
I've done things I shouldn't do, I've made a mess of the
world I inhabit and yet it remains mine, I've ran away with it all the way to
the other side, and yet it stays. This world of mine, I have come to realise,
will not be great, it will not exceed the norm; it may not become what it thinks it should be, it will struggle to stay sane, but it will continuously learn, and pretend it is all ok, it will smile and be kind. This tiny, infinite world of mine, this world that is only in my head and yet it inhabits the universe, minuscule, insignificant it fights and it is loud, not its purpose but yet a lot more. This world of mine, has been split, and broken and yet somehow this night it finds itself, like it does sometimes, when I let go. It often lives away from me, and it is not quiet and just engages in pointless discourse.
This world, which is really me, all of me, and not enough, and too much. This world inhabits a space too great and yet it is made to feel so small. And this is me, reduced to black and white in the paper, it was so much easier to just be a world, ethereal, never ending, but at the end of the day I am the one creating this, I am the one making me, making this world small and insignificant. Reality is as beautiful as a novel set in 1940s Paris...
This world, which is really me, all of me, and not enough, and too much. This world inhabits a space too great and yet it is made to feel so small. And this is me, reduced to black and white in the paper, it was so much easier to just be a world, ethereal, never ending, but at the end of the day I am the one creating this, I am the one making me, making this world small and insignificant. Reality is as beautiful as a novel set in 1940s Paris...
And the parts of me are far greater, the whole of me is empty , how can
you add this up?
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