You know when you blame yourself for stuff, and you have got used to doing it, and it becomes second nature to the extent you think it’s first nature, and it always has to be like that, and so the furniture of your life just must always be distressed because distressed is the way furniture is for everyone … well, I guess that even in my kind of life, or the life I’ve led to date, there must come a moment when you realise there is plenty of furniture out there where distressed is the last word you’d use to describe it, and there are happy smiling faces surrounded by embracing furniture, and body-hugging furniture, and furniture that works to extend the reach of good people over the hold of the bad.
And so when you realise that thing, not intellectually, not rationally, but in the inside of your insides, you really do understand there’s a different life to be grasped.
And so I guess I’m just about there: and it’s not people like this or that I am looking for; it isn’t one imagining or another I need. What I need is quite something else: to be able to express wants in the first place, and for those wants to have a place which doesn’t distress me – or anyone else – at all; doesn’t mean every day is a battle to get out the truth; doesn’t mean I have to square circles with squares that need circling.
That’s been my life all my life. Sincerely, it’s been exhausting; and so now, I am exhausted of it.
My health before propriety. And I have seen my health suffer before. And I thought it was others outside who followed my steps. And I failed to analyse the reality of the situation; the circumstances; the location; the frustration; the fear; the loneliness; the ultimate incomprehension. And it wasn’t out there in mysterious darkness; instead, it was far closer to home.
And maybe I am partly to blame. And maybe if I move elsewhere, I will repeat mistakes, and make mistakes, and the patterns will recur, and finally I will learn it was me all along.
But I must now run the risk of this happening, and of the pain that it would bring. For whilst the alternative may be small, if true it is too grand a ball to miss out on. I want just to get up in the morning in the kind of love and life and thrive and stuff which doesn’t require me to read minds, and tread egg-shells, and feel guilt-ridden every moment of my life.
And kinda one day feel that it may also allow me to feel beloved, in a way which ain’t ever a sacrificial act no more.
Does anyone get this? Has it happened to anyone else? Am I just a bad guy – or do I have any rights to express?
The questions being rhetorical need no answers here.
But I think by writing this out, and blogging the past few months, and photographing how I’ve photographed, I’ve eventually been able to ask questions the answers to which I am already learning how to craft.
And so this is it.
There is nothing more I can do to save a relationship of almost thirty years.
And a soft-landing has been rejected, time and time again.
And so I guess this is some sort of irrevocableness I have characteristically shied away from for virtually the whole of my life.
And it’s a strange feeling to decide to do definitive things.
Writers observe, spectate, record, and filter.
They don’t, as a rule, take decisions; and much less implement them.
I’ve done all I can. Now to pick up the pieces that will emerge, as best as I can – but no longer at my expense.
And then rescue the rest of my life from an oblivion it clearly doesn’t deserve.
It’s OK. I’m OK precisely for having spoken to yous here.
Social sometimes is exactly that: social.
And when home has been a prison, it’s good to finally feel the cool air and the gentle breezes of humanity on the weird outside I begin to sense more clearly. And so that’s how I am beginning to feel here. And so I hope it continues.