the truth is, i am shamefully undisciplined.
the truth is, i am just not interested in autobiography at the moment.
i caught myself reverting to a habitual melancholy the other day. an expectation of all being wrong; or at least, not all right. i tentatively turned it around. it was ridiculously simple.
so i am a sad-seeker. my grecian friend said to me one day that he thought i didn't always do everything i could to help myself in life. i was outraged. but there you go. i might have dedicated that joyful turnaround to him.
the truth is, i am a masochist. a masochist, a sad-seeker, and a teapot.
that said, i can also be a bubble. a flutter-tailed kite. punch-drunk on liquorice and cloudshine.
it's never relative. always exponential. and it's a conundrum. because melancholy sends me rushing for the keys. writing out my solace. filling the void with words. but when i am happy, i am free (isn't that all happiness is? momentary freedom?), free from the need to write. and, i am shamefully undisciplined.
it's a conundrum.
but i was listening to a glorious song today which ever since september has been matt's song. they played it at his wake, although i wasn't there, and ever since it has been his, his song, his album, and i cannot listen without tearing a bit. and i was full of the song and full of the sadness of him, who will never not be young, but, perhaps, never really was young either, and i thought, i am still going where other people have stopped. every moment is an addition to what could have been a stop. and i am so often grey-edged and world-weary that i can't hold back from these sugar-snap joys. and why should i? i am young. young, and not stopped.
1 comment:
not stopped. i like this very much. how to relish a non-stop that could have been a stop, though, is tricky at the best of times. but now that you've said it i feel really pleased that you're not stopped. and really pleased that i'm not stopped. we are unstoppered.
ever your gal.
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