here again

these days weigh heavy and I stay as still as I can. a new year in no time at all. the thought is a little much for me to wrap my heart around right now. the space I occupy moving into this next calendar is not one in which I feel particularly comfortable or content. I wear my current state of being like a last-minute party costume, unready to commit to moving forward. I look ridiculous and with enough distance I can laugh.

I carry an aquarium of memories and feelings on my shoulders. they swim in their cage, colliding into each other and the glass that keeps them from flying free.

nothing wise to say. words mean nothing. I’m lost and unsettled and feeling alone. all things pass. it’s just another day. <<

south

the choir sang Silent Night after the Eucharist and I started crying. I’m not quite sure why. maybe partly to do with the realisation that what was once a magical time has become a period of sombre reflection. the childlike wonder replaced permanently by the observation that I am only getting older and further from the child that used to find wonder in the possibilities of everything around him.

we escaped down south after Christmas for a couple of days. no internet or connection to the rest of the world beyond what we’d brought with us - food to eat, books to read, tents to sleep in. we walked the coast from one beach to another and looked out at the horizon. I felt how far I was from everything I’ve ever loved and for a moment took solace in the fact that there was nothing I could do about the distance. I swam in the ocean knowing it connected me to the same waves that lapped at the shore or southeast England.

Fieke told me I need to be proactive and make a decision I want to move forward. I know she’s right and I need to listen to her, however difficult it was for me to hear. everything about what’s next feels uncertain right now, though I’ve been here before, and as Fieke reminded me, I’ve survived every day so far.

I feel far from almost everyone I’ve ever loved, with not much idea where to find comfort.

Isaiah leaves tomorrow. it’s always hard to let him go. I love him more than anything.

I am held by those around me and count the blessings they bring. one day at a time. <<

a time for everything

not much to say. words feel fickle in the face of feelings so insignificant. alive on a planet for now a quarter of a century, with no more to show for my time than the stubble I shave every morning.

I lean on people I love in the midst of the dread. they hold me and I count myself lucky to know their care.

one day at a time. many days, a time for everything. where am I going and why am I still treading water? <<

less questions

no amount of dreading can wish away the day. it’s 25 this time round. I fill spaces in a body that has moved about for a quarter of a century, despite my feeling as capable as a twelve year old. the day that is just another day pulls me further from all that I miss and wish I still had. time slips beyond my grasp and continues to unravel. I am far from who I want to be, but I am in the company of people who show me love, and for this I must thank the world.

I try to remind myself of my own insignificance in the greater scheme of things - how inconsequential my existence truly is in the face of the unfolding cosmic mystery. celebrating a moment my breathing commenced each December doesn’t need to fill me with the dread and existential angst I seem to face every year on this day. I need to grow. I’m sure someday it will make more sense and leave less questions. <<

eight years

grief hangs heavy on December 16th. eight years have passed and still I wake to this day as a nearly-17-year-old, fragile and confused as though the accident has only just happened. I feel close to the people I used to know back then, even if I don’t know them anymore. the loss connects us still now despite time and distance.

on December 16th I give myself permission to stop and listen. I wrestle with the question of ‘why’ and am left exhausted and still no closer to an answer than I was the year before. losing Louise so suddenly was a teacher of difficult lessons. with her passing, the futility of everything emerged as an inescapable reality that continues to challenge me every day. I fold a crane and hope it might make at least a little more sense tomorrow. it never does, and still we go again.

her absence challenges me to cherish what I have while I can. I try my best for her, though I lack faith in where this is all going. there is good everywhere and I remind myself to look for it. <<

where I am

the heat is an unwanted blanket. it spoils sleep and tangles me up in ways that keep me from doing what might be good for me. Pia’s company has been a godsend, and I’m lucky to have had her around to keep me on the sounder side of sanity. she leaves tomorrow, as Fieke arrives, and it’s only when I check the date on my phone that I realise we’re as close as we are to the days I dread.

in the all consuming distractions of the perpetual presence of a friend and the phone in my pocket I forget where I am. days can pass without thinking consciously about the path I’m forging, the decisions I’m making, how I really feel about the space I occupy. I find solace in escaping myself. there is peace in being far from where I really am.

I count the good things always: a roof and a bed, people to miss, dear friends to hold, new friends to make, a home and a heart. there is always good to come. <<

heavier

summer has arrived. the heat makes every moment seem a little heavier. movements are slower with the weight, through both day and night. it’s only going to get warmer as we roll closer to the new year. thoughts are fuzzier and the anticipation for the sweet relief of sleep only builds.

sleep and breath are the constants linking one day into the next. I call each member of my family one by one in no order in particular. I tell them I miss them, though the gesture of calling speaks for itself. at the Palestine rally I heard children chanting and thought of what we’re capable of doing to one another and the power of greed and fear. I cried in the crowd, disgusted by the human project in which I have no choice but to participate.

I walked to buy groceries in the evening for a moment of normalcy. everything costs more now. I need to make a plan for how I’ll manage this come the new year. it’s not really something that excites me, though I know I need to move through all this for the sake of those who love me. December has become some sort of an emotional gauntlet I can only navigate with the patience and love of those I trust. one day at a time. I sleep and wake and start again. <<

billions

leaving the island doesn’t get easier. the physical distance between my childhood home and the rest of the world can feel as comforting as it can overwhelming. there, I am so far from so many of the people I love - an impossible distance that only seems to grow the more I miss. at the same time, the island is an escape for me - from the roles I should be playing, the age I should be acting, the future I should embrace. the escape feels safe and I return to the adult world every time wondering why I have to grow up.

spending the past two weeks with Pia has been a blissful distraction. her company has done wonders for my heart and wandering mind. we laugh together and I forget about the things that hurt me. it’s a joy to know her friendship.

moments of clarity shrouded by uncertainty. I’ve returned to Sydney feeling no more in control of the path I’m taking than before. when looking at how things play out I try to remind myself to not take it all so seriously. sometimes it makes me laugh. I think about the fact that at one point in time we were all helpless babies, completely dependent on an adult to feed and clean us. we all share humble beginnings. how wonderful.

in the sky I feel closer to the people I miss, despite being high above anyone I’ve ever loved. the clouds we drift over roll into each other and take all sorts of new shapes as they pass over one ocean to the next. we all look at the same moon, albeit at different times. I continue to take comfort in what keeps us connected, however pointless it can feel.

Mia and I saw an angel sing this evening. Caroline Polachek was a marvel - perhaps the most impressive voice I’ve ever heard. as she sang Parachute, a girl near us at the front sobbed quietly - I think she had attended the concert alone. for a moment it felt as though none of us where in the theatre but her and the songstress onstage. come the end of the song, the girl dried her eyes and collected herself. Caroline kept singing, and the girl joined in quietly. a precious moment to witness.

I knowingly avoid asking myself the questions I need to answer. time ticks and continues to take. and I’m still drifting. making sense where I can. taking note of what is good, treasuring what I still have. 

St Sebastian, an attempted return to art. I’ll try again come Christmas. <<