It’s a Wednesday night baby and I’m alive.

I’m not sure how it all started.

“How to live?”. How to live starting from a position of negativity, from a lack, either as a woman (Jacques Lacan and penis envy) or lack as a loss in the form of death of parents, or of illness and disability; the loss of the ability to walk, of taken for granted functions. How to live in a constant sense of liminality, when the liminal becomes not a transition but the daily experience of living a life. What life can be lived without prevailing norms to sustain it.

How to detach from the conventional, from what is not working. How to envision an alternative in a form that once articulated it’s radical nature is not diminished. How to not scale down. Where to find alternative modes of existence that excite and stimulate without compromise of our fundamental needs. And what of our fundamental needs? Where do they lie? Somewhere in that space in between. Each encounter is a moment of becoming, not merely a recognition of what one already is. It is a potential transformation, a future building. Or it is stifling, a stern grip on my mouth, binds on my sensuality. Choices, independence, makers; we choose only the ties that bind us.

A yoga practice directed to self-knowledge is to sell your practice short. What a limited exercise. A yoga practice dedicated to loving oneself is challenging no-one, critical thought is diluted and washed away. It’s teethy smiles and cute shorts and nit-picking. It’s not empowering or about choices and independence. Yoga is a process of coming undone to discover ways of being, of living that might perhaps offer alternatives that intimate ever so softly what makes a life worth living. It is to question what markers we designate, what objects we follow, who we love, what illusions provide us sustenance.

It is to enter into a mode of liminality; an opportunity to become over and over again. The sense of antecedent is eroded. I never was, so I can only be in new disguises. This is how to detach from what is not working. To never claim to be anything. To never believe you can know your own self. But it is threatening and awkward. Better to seek alternatives with cushioning, to sand down those prickly radical edges, make it easier to swallow.

Equilibrium as an end point becomes polite and boring. The Mercury in Aries in the 12th House makes me abrupt, direct and impatient. Impatient to live, to experience, to love. Oh I’m fickle and contradictory when the stars align. Let’s never be short-sighted with our ambitions and our desires. Let’s think wide and stretch our days long. Pinky promise on that and lick our thumbs. Sticky saliva will bind us together, sisters of the spirit.

I’m wide awake.

The thing about growing older is the realization that the dream of finally living life, of becoming a ‘real’ person is only that, a dream. It’s the devastating realization that the life you are living right now is all there is and that you are no longer secluded by that childish voice that declares: ‘When I grow up I’m going to be…’ You’ve grown, you’ve lived; the surprises peter out from here.

And each day comes round no matter how distant they appear at first, a year seems such a long and beautiful or dreary stretch as a child. A year now is too soon and too quick and too easily forgotten. A year has to be tied to a meaning, a purpose, it has to be collated with activities. What did you do to clutter your days? And what of the days, weeks, years forgotten, for if we cannot remember our lives, we are stuck in the continual present of active forgetting. We do things in order to remember them or write them or capture them in art and elevate them from the day-to-day drabness.

Growing older is a continual loss of all the persons you could have been and all the things that could have happened. It is a process of collecting efforts and successes filled with hard work and varied encounters and lots of nothingness and loneliness and failures and happy accidents. It’s happening upon unhappy events and wandering through them and being changed or chipped away by some indescribable forces like loss and grief and friendships and relationships that fall apart. It’s sitting at a table on your 28th birthday surrounded by beautiful faces you never even knew existed a year previous to that day. It’s seeing a life a year at a time instead of daily, and reflecting on whether you lived up to the expectations of your age. It’s wondering why I feel so childish and naive and innocent at an age where I should feel experienced and skillful. But it’s also about being able to confidently say what you mean and losing the irrational insecurities of youth. It’s an incomprehension of girly fixations on weight or looks and beauty and seeing the fleeting and empty nature of it all. It is feeling ambivalent about the prospect of losing looks which you feel you have yet to be rewarded for.

It’s thinking about what really matters. It’s thinking about what makes a good life. It’s the heavy beating heart that keeps me awake at night and the object in my eye-line. It’s not about feeling good but it is about desire and unwrapped sensuality. It’s about love but not obligatory love for the self or the body. It’s a journey home filled with love and happiness that feels both too much and not enough.

It’s about choosing to perform what is considered a normal life and trying to make that meaningful or a radical rejection of what is already not working. It’s about building ways of living outside the dream of the ‘good life’ that are not hopeless. It’s about never getting ‘back on track’. It’s about exploring unbeaten terrain. It’s about ways of living that are inappropriate and happy failures. There’s no self-realisation or rebirth or new identities or other temporary cages. There’s only the finite and the haphazard search for a life worth living.