an anti-post-departure rant.
16 June 2011 § Leave a comment
I missed my flight today. I procrastinated until the last possible moment, tried to get in too much, and made too much of what wasn’t really all that much.
Lessons every day. Learn a lesson from adrenalin, and calm down when it takes over. Focus on your heart. Memorize the map of all the places that it goes.
You’re not too much for the world, and the world isn’t too much for you. Include more quotes, a head and a deck and pull. I know how to write a story, and I chose not to. My apologies for half-assing that one. I thought it could be worked with. I didn’t want to work with it, because I had other things on my mind like the plans of another, and the not-so-subtle insinuations that I picked up on a little late in the conversation to follow up seamlessly with a comment on fate or good fortune.
I miss her like crazy, but it’s a small and tenuous connection I have to that feeling: I feel it, but won’t let it consume me. I won’t write a story of it, though I have a hundred times already. It doesn’t swallow me whole, but masticates gently, so I feel the nerves quivering before they they’re struck. I let it work its magic backstage, behind my mind’s wanderings, though I lift the curtain, just to look, to feel, when I’ve had enough of the real world.
You swear too much and smoke too much and eat too much and look at them with sly and ferocious eyes and smile at them with condescending lips and talk less than them in public, and all of it makes you pure. Pure like the ocean currents, which move like you need to, like you want to and must, in order to know you’re still breathing.
There’s some truth in there, somewhere. When I can stand on top of a mountain and see two oceans, I think I’ll know it better. For now, I’m just exploring. What disillusionment. Today is like that last day in Budapest: I thought I had a flight and didn’t, so I spent the evening wandering. I went back to that cafébar where Manchester United killed the other team the night before, where the guy with the dragon tattoos talked to that brunette in a language I’m confident I will never understand, and occasionally made her smile. She twirled the straw in her drink the rest of the time, and I smiled to myself, or to the refrigerator of beers I couldn’t afford, and scribbled incomprehensible notes into the book that served as my salvation, about my equivalents to this or that, or an observation about the old guys sitting behind me, sipping drinks they relied too much on.
One can’t return to an empty hostel on a stomach full of that sticky stuff that smells of someone that brushed by you in the street. He must walk it off for seventy blocks, past cavalcades and fluorescent tunnels coated in aerosolpainted elegance. These symbols can never die, especially if we never find their meaning: they are questions yet to be answered, and those cannot be destroyed until they find their counterpart, of find that none such was born.
The streets are likewise painted in candlelight. Concrete meadows stretch along pedestrianised roadways, promising fruit in summer and faraway flowers in summer, especially when unasked for. But they’ll never say they meant to and didn’t, because that lesson came with the territory of trial and error, in the garden of art and circumstance, next to the placid lake lifeguarded.
This will survive, and we will be left of it.