I never prepared myself for this. But in all honesty, how could I? How could anyone? Does anyone really understand and envisage the innumerable strands that extend and enfold each moment from the choices we’re forced to make?
Each second spawns another — like a line of incestuous descent — each twisted point in time huddles cheek by jowl in sordid secrecy in the tall, blackened edifices of my mind, deep within in the bowels of this meandering city that only comes alive at night.
Today I stood by my window and watched a bluebird flit in a cherry tree where early buds had dared to peek, it pecked at the shoots before their infant lives had a chance to bloom. I was so incensed by this I chased the bird away. And then I longed for it in anguish when it didn’t return.
It’s warmer outside now and soon the clocks will move again — a reminder that time is a lonely stranger who constantly strides away from me on this uneven road. But inside, my winter storms continue to rage without promise beyond the horizon, and yet I know I must always journey into them.
Like a cloth that conceals a terminal patient, my grasp of what is real undulates as it moves towards the mind and touches everything in between — between my experience and the truth of it — everything I understand, like the gasping patient, is declining now.
However, there are times when I glimpse particles of dust, matter suspended in their decaying state in the warm glow of the afternoon; or, when walking in the dull, morning rain, the cars stream and trail as their tyres enter and exit shallow puddles and splash up a symphony of rain and sound, it is then that I catch myself in a renewed state of solicitude. And for a tiny, hidden moment where all life (from the smallest, most invisible to the unimaginable; from the mundane to the magical) seems sacrosanct. In those brief, sacred moments I am fused with the world again, in synergy with the tiny changes that take place unnoticed each second.
Now, as the city chokes in the blinding light secreted by these blackened towers, I watch myself stand against this ledge understanding that these moments are becoming rare, but when they do arrive, despite the things I’ve done, I can, for small moments, forget and find my untenable peace.