A random Friday

Friday, 9 January

I'm crying in my kitchen, desperately, inconsolably, loud; it's shaking my body and I can almost feel the tears digging their burning path through my cheeks, dropping off my face onto the table in viscose puddle. The liquid is murky and it is the distilled skin, flesh and soul that drips from me. I can taste the salt and once it's over, I can feel my face swollen, my jaw tight, rigid, my eyes still scalding in their sockets. It's a Friday night and there's nothing about it; nothing other than the fact that I've had two glasses of wine, put some music on and am alone in my kitchen ..oh, and he's missing and I'm missing him.

I wonder, in his state of bliss, of pure joy, wherever he is, does he miss me? and if he does, it must be in a different way than what I'm feeling, because what i'm feeling is almost nauseating. Has he found a superior state of mind that gave him the clarity I lack? Is his soul touching mine, talking to it, dancing with it, orbiting around it and is my brain dismissing such absurd behaviour? Because how can someone be serene whilst longing for someone else and how can they be happily connected to someone, whilst knowing that the other cannot connect to them and instead, are trying desperately to both break away and claw onto whatever shred of presence is there, invoked, revived, relived.

Monday, 9 February ... a random Monday

Random is holding me for ransom... random images, random thoughts, random objects push the trigger of the gun that's pressing against my throat, my ribs... never on the trajectory of a major organ, never fatal, but close enough to cause pain, to scar, to send me into the sharp edges and elaborate effervescence of suffering, or worst...into the catatonic state.

Limbo is an all-inclusive holiday resort and I'm trapped by the pool, witnessing a debate on whether or not the fresh orange juice is indeed fresh, or indeed made of oranges. Hell is the perspective of getting trapped in limbo, slipping into comfort, numbing the senses and drowning out the questions. Heaven comes with a Go To Hell card, not optional, with the battle for answers, with the uncertainty of having asked the right questions, with shattering of essence and rebuilding the foundation, with letting go and with learning. Learn to be patient, learn to trust, learn to listen. Death is not what scares me, time scares me. It's relative, unstable, unreliable, cunning, but also generous, mysterious and wonderful. It likes to play games, not the entertaining kind, but more like the Chinese finger trap - the more you pull away, the tighter it wraps around you and entraps you, in a hold that is not merely binding, but also painful.

I want to make peace with time, so I write, on a random day, at a random time: I won't waste you. Please don't waste me. 

Is anything random? A ruthless man - and by that I mean free from sentimentality, said if one can't imagine a life outside of the existence of a superior governing force, a life that simply ends when it ends, it's for lack of trying. So I'm trying. Nothing of me after I die? That doesn't bother me - I can find a meaning and a purpose within the confines of my chemical presence. Nothing that guides, governs, cares about me as a particular cog in the machine... that's a bit more unsettling, with so many fatalistic, deterministic stamps on the passport of my youth. And then there's the business of patterns - our eyes, and more importantly, our minds are designed to see patterns. It arose as a necessity for survival but it may have outlived its purpose and end up killing us. However, if we are doomed - excuse me - designed to look for patterns, I decide to look for the ones I desire.