One knows love somehow only when all one’s ideas are destroyed, and this becoming unhinged from what one knows is the paradigmatic sign of love. – Judith Butler, Doubting Love.
I want to write you a letter. A letter in which I tell you everything. I want to share it all. For it is not mine to own anyway. Take it from me. Live it with me. What can I give you with my words anyway, or my mind, or my body for that matter. My secrets, they are not me, they are not who I am, just temporary fragments of a person. I can give you all this if you want, it will not diminish me. For sitting here in a new strange room the self suddenly feels empty and vacant though the mind floods with recent events and happenings that somehow feel as though they are occurring outside of this self I am inhabiting. A year of happenings which I cannot comprehend and so they filter through my consciousness in the form of anxiety attacks that seize me every morning in the grey drabness of public transport.
I’m still sat on those steps in the dark thinking what the hell is going on with my life. Though as I find myself spending an increasingly large amount of time sorting out the lives of friends I wonder if I have somehow arrived at that plateau of mundane capable adulthood. But what is that sense of loss that lingers in my pores. I’ve forgotten something. Or maybe it is this life. This city. There is a joyless feeling. All less. I’m detailing what it is not but not what it is.
To describe experiences always simplfies them and yet still I forage for the words to express what happened. What is happening. How is it people enter our lives at certain points. It all feels so arbitrary. I am missing out on a whole circle of friends I could have had if I lived in a different area, if I took a different job, if I went to India three months earlier or later. How trivial a basis for the people that become our best friends, confidantes, lovers, husbands, wives.
As for me, I don’t really do relationships. My solitude clings to me – my comforting plague, so threatening to others. But here’s the thing: I care about people too much. In last year’s humid winter I made a vow. I even wrote about it, to myself: I had given up on the hope for love. And then a series of seemingly fated meetings and partings and a revolution in my beliefs. It was true: some moments were better shared. I have no clear sense of myself apart from you, and with you I merge and get confused. To whom do I belong? Who am I? I’m nobody. Then what does that make you, to befriend me, I only reflect back your personality to yourself.
Keep moving, in transit I am at home. This is where the freedom lies. Only a suitcase to my name, objects I can give away, 5 pairs of shoes, no fixed address, no occupation, no partner. Only this blank page is mine, and even then this page doesn’t exist, just lost into the chasm of the internet, no physicality to hold, these words transitory, malleable, and endless…
Here’s where you can find me – falling in and out of the slippery lines, clumsy adjectives and amateur metaphors.
Just grab me and take me. I’ll follow you (down, down, down….).