I figured it out..!
Maybe a better rephrase is that just like every other day, I have made a monumental realisation. The realisation itself is big and bold, but at the same time, sort of humble and sad.
It was made while reading a book written about the art of writing, just ten minutes ago. The book written on the art of writing, was being read, in the biggest collection of books I have access to, the local library.
A collection of stories that refuse to be anything, but vividly remembered.
There is something ridiculously comforting about sitting, surrounded by the tools, you are using to decipher your very essence. Tools that everyone else seems to have figured out how to use, to understand themselves in the same way that I yearn to, with every atom that is alive under my skin.
I have always known that writing is my therapy. It’s what I have to do in the same way that I have to breathe and my heart has to beat. But more than therapy, I think it’s how I combat one of my biggest fears.
The closest answer I can give to the question of my biggest fear, boils down to the matter of un-lived potential. But what I’m coming to understand, is that I can write much more of a story into it, than just those few words.
I’ve grown up understanding intimately how fragile life is.
I know that with a click of fate’s fingers, your entire world can go from white to black. I have understood since I was three years old, that the human existence is a deceptive illusion and that happiness is potentially a ticking time bomb.
I think when I was younger I believed that the world was doomed and that anyone who could call themselves happy, was just living on borrowed time. Time they didn’t own and would have to give back, with interest. I thought it was like a depressed seesaw. If you were happy, that only meant you were going to be even sadder than before. A terrifying pendulum swing. To me, it was just a matter of time. Anguish was the price you paid for playing at the other end of the seesaw.
Now, I’m much less dramatic.
I think you can be truely happy. And I think I’m nearly convinced that happiness is not some kind of debt to depression you’re paying into. Maybe you can be really, really, happy and maybe you are allowed to give yourself permission to just enjoy that happiness.
I’m still on the fence about that.
But the factor that has engrained itself in the seams of my very soul, is the idea that time is running out. Maybe I can be happy yes, but that doesn’t remove the ticking clock on my existence here. Maybe, I can spend it happy, but I will have to leave.
I don’t know when I will die. The poetic part of my mind is convinced I will be one of those sad stories of a life taken too young. Maybe a fatal car crash out on a starlight date with my boyfriend, like in the song Last Kiss by Pearl Jam. If that circumstance does arise, I will be sorely dissatisfied to find out the entire audience at my funeral was not brought to tears by somebody blasting that song, while my coffin is carried out of the candle lit hall.
I am half convinced I won’t be allowed to live past thirty.
My mentality is too dangerous. I could potentially cause quite a ruckus in this world if given enough time, so it would make sense for whatever gods are up there, to pull the plug early and preserve the status quo.
I’m cool with that.
I don’t feel any anger towards this idea of limited time, but I think I do see it as a challenge. Sure, I could slow down, do less, say less, think less, be less, and probably last a bit longer. But like I said, I’m not very good at living life in the middle. Mediocrity is just not my thing.
My quiet rebellion is this right here.
I intend to keep living as far from ‘less’ as I can. So, I find myself racing the clock to leave a trace. If my fate is unsure, my biggest victory will be to have left irrefutable proof that I was here.
I’ve seen how easily people, whole stories, are forgotten. Nobody talks about my great, great grandmother anymore. But I can still remember how she smelled, how her soft wrinkled skin arched itself thinly over the hard nubs of the bone around her hands, the gold framed photographs that hung, on the puke beige walls, and how sad she looked every time one of those blue-green trays of food arrived.
I think it’s vain and very shallow, as are most of my motivations in life, but I think something that scares me almost as much as un-lived potential is being forgotten.
So I write to immortalise my greatest victory and most valued possession, a life that has been lived.