The last couple of weeks took me from feeling out of place in Sydney to feeling very much in place. Stories are carefully taking place in the realm where anything is acceptable. The attraction always dies fast when there is too much complication that introduces a certain kind of tiredness even before things can settle down on their own. And I am content with that – living in a shade of my former passion, keeping most of who I am for the late nights that don’t singularly belong to anybody. One man exchanges another in the door. It would be difficult any other time – and for one day I allowed it to get difficult – but just like the quick storms in Sydney, I let myself be seen for a mere thirty minutes just to completely let go.
For months I’ve lived in a perpetual state of not caring only to be brought to the light from it and then hauled back inside the shadows. I never understood apathy before, choosing to leave Prague where apathy often settled down onto people’s shoulders in the morning trams and didn’t leave until a couple of beers in and inebriated thoughts about politics, sex, and philosophy started herding blood to the sullen faces. I wanted to be at the precipice. I wanted everything or nothing. I wanted to feel the whole of human joy and suffering. I wanted to experience alien lives. I wanted to go until I am stopped in my tracks by an arbitrary tragedy.
There’s always too little to say. Each day, words get more and more meaningless. But they never understand that as the words disappear, the shared closeness dissipates, the attraction quickly follows, and any exchange of anything becomes mechanical and apathetic. I wish I didn’t feel relief at this, but I do.
Music as of late: Amy Winehouse – Stronger Than Me