The Cranberries are playing and a helicopter is hovering somewhere in the vicinity. It is a warm and breezy night and I feel inclined to jot down a few thoughts.
Every morning, as I struggle to wash away the remnants of a part-time death, I speculate as to what the day holds for me. Will I do the things I've planned to do? What exactly have I planned? I have a vague idea of what needs to be done but to call it a plan is quite inaccurate. More pertinently, I wonder whether the elements –celestial and otherwise– will aid me in getting things done. How long will I spend on public transport? I need to see my father and return a magazine I borrowed over a year ago. I’ve got essays which I need to start writing. The list is endless and life-sapping.
I return to my room and take a moment to reflect on the various sheets of paper, magazines and CDs that clog up the shoe-box that is my bedroom. Everything is inanimate and uninspiring, except for the book next to my pillow: The Bell Jar.
Money wasn’t my strongest point as a teenager. When I had some cash to spare, I went to the local bookshop and bought The Bell Jar. We had read Sylvia Plath’s poetry in school and I was fascinated by the fact that she took her own life at such a young age. What a brave thing to do, I thought. Years later, I would develop an unorthodox respect for Plath and others like her. David Foster Wallace being the other notable author who chose to bring his biological wagon to a halt.
The words are chilling and honest to the point where they have become devastating. My eyes are glued to the pages and I could almost smell an odour of despair and detachment – the kind of detachment that Jean-Dominique Bauby revelled in despite his paralysis.
I wonder whether angels are mortal and whether they will be held to account like us humans. On the same train of thought, other interesting passengers are aboard: My mother, Studs Terkel and Eva Cassidy seem to be floating side by side, speaking to me, only I can’t hear what they’re saying.
My journey is long and laborious; so is everybody else’s. I have to teach myself to have a tunnelled vision and to never look sideways. The destination is anyone’s guess. For now, I keep reminding myself of Carpe Diem, The Dead Poets’ Society and all that jazz. Prepare to be disappointed at some point, keep your chin up and chug along. Some promises are bound to broken but you do your best and hope that you hurt no-one.
My legacy, if I were to have one, ought to be something that fills others with a pleasant sense of recognition. “He articulated our anxieties.” That would feel blissful and just about satisfactory.
I am five and I am wearing white, girls’ socks. I am eight and I am desperate to learn how to make tea. I am fifteen and I am coming to terms with mortality. I am twenty-one and I am redefining my route. I am thirty-five and I am rejoicing in a life that’s blossoming before my eyes. I am fifty and I am relentless to stick around.
I am.. somewhere serene and all-consuming.
