Takes a deep breath and exhales. Pauses for a moment. Then begins to type.
It’s been months now. It feels longer; like this has always been my life. If you knew what rages inside me you, too, would see the flat cloud formation at the top of the storm. I rain over myself, pull up the rotten roots, violently sweep everything out of my heart. Something’s got to give. I’ve always been the kind of girl attracted to darkness like mosquitoes are to light. I’m not proud of it, but I am painfully alive because of it, so I learnt to embrace and confess my affinities. There’s something sexy about fighting the elements, creation, this life, if you ask me. You can never win, but you can’t get any closer to sharing the reins with God either – even if you know you’re going in the wrong direction and eventually you’ll have to give them back.
It might be wrong, but the voice of reason is soft, and my heart is so fucking loud.
This year has been the hardest one. Days blurred into one another. Pick one, pick every single one and you too can laugh at the pattern. The more I stare into it, the more my field of vision shrinks until I feel I’m looking at a narrow band of light that’s burning my eyes. The pain is real, only it doesn’t take place up there. It’s the pain of possibility, vulnerability, and risk. ‘Once you stop feeling it, you’ve lost your best chance to make a difference,’ said Stephen King. I read those words three times, then turned out the only light in the room and go back to bed. My mind keeps racing and trying to tie so many different strings together; ‘what difference?’ and ‘how do I make it stop?’ and ‘do I want it to stop, if this is the case?’a
And ‘yes. yes, I want it to stop. I want it so bad, my heart must be glowing in the dark.’
I find myself up at all hours of the night, tired of dreaming about the past and the future that never arrived. I keep catching reminders of the woman my 13-year-old self always dreamed of becoming, and spend most of my time wishing I could empty my whole self into her through a shoulder, through clasped hands, through an electrical discharge. I wonder if my prayers are valid, when I only come back with emptiness. I pray, nonetheless. What else is there to do? All that can be done has been done. Now I just sit here and wait. Next time you hear from me, I will hopefully be elsewhere. The anticipation leaves me unfocused and weak at times, no less than the uncertainty. My body is here, but my mind is dreaming of a new chapter. I am too exhausted to pick up the pen, but too eager to start to fall asleep. From the outside I must be damn good at juggling fire torches; inside I’m burning like a bright flame on top of the very last bit of melted candle. Maybe it’s just the type of fuel I run best on – myself, to get to the spark I will end up writing for – myself.
Ah, the deep calm is still just a concept. I don’t just sit in the storm. I am the storm, coming from all sides.
The last few months really were pages flipped by the wind. I hold no memories dear. I remember them like a single, immeasurably-long paragraph, with a single sentence running across it multiple times. It goes something like this: ‘The air is damp and the sky is pitch black, and I’ve been dreaming every night of warmth and a place to call home, and I’ve been waking up every morning with cold feet in other people’s houses.’ Yet dark and wet as they might have been, the texture of my days felt softer than ever. My world was easy to mould. People tugged at it and I let them. I should have known every road on my map by now; every shortcut and every detour. This year, I forgot what shape my country should have had. This was a map with my name for a capital, a map I let others draw because the capital was on the verge of collapse under thunderstorms and flash floods. I only tell the truth on here – so here I go: this year, I didn’t know how to rule. There, I said it. I had nothing of the magnificent beast of a girl I set out to be, with a fire within enflaming my mind to build myself an empire; none of that.
This year I sat around, fantasising spirits one could hire would come in and give myself a complete cleaning; millions of brushes scrubbing white effervescent foam into every obscure or hiding corner of my soul.
But the cloud casted over me for the past months is breaking now. I hold on to my storms, because they make me just as they break me, yes; but there is nothing left to fight and nothing left to fight for. I can feel it breaking, its last words drifting slowly across the skies like well-made paper aeroplanes. They remind me that I don’t need its chaos anymore, that the chaos taught me all there was to teach this year. I’m becoming bizarrely temperamental. I can’t put my finger on one good thing I was left with, but I know that time will teach me what my ruins mean. I have to keep reminding myself that I can’t fight the universe any longer than he wants to put up with my fight. I have to keep reminding myself that I wanted it all to end, that I want to honour and own my dreams and my world again, and even though I don’t yet know how, I’m just as capable as I was before and after every final episode.
I look around for the map, but the map is gone, so I start looking around for where the wilderness is. I’ll build castles again, as soon as the last raindrop has had its way with me. I’ll let it rain, and I’ll let it shine again.