Do you feel it?
It’s like a sharp wind, but It’s not the wind. The wind is realer. Not that the feeling isn’t real, but It’s not as real as a force of nature.
The feeling comes and goes. It goes, yes: but It often comes back. And when It does, It blows me away. I am a tiny and impotent ship, cast adrift. No direction whatsoever, none. There are no more continents to conquer. There are no more ships or ethnic nations to wreck. There’s just me. There’s just me, adrift.
I sit on the edges of the boat. I sit on the edge. Nothing surrounds me.
And what can one do with that? What can one do with nothingness, with loneliness, with the feeling of being just one tiny speck of dust in the whole universe, connected to nothing else but one’s own atoms?
Nothing else that is tied to you, nothing but yourself. No one that will be your eternal rock, because rocks eventually disintegrate, themselves.
And then it goes.
Then It takes its luggage, Its heavy luggage made of two decades of memories and thoughts, two decades of the various forms of you that you’ve had. Some of the bags are lost in translation, they are lost somewhere, they never come back: but they are replaced by other bags, new ones, new ones that feel billions of years old already. And on Its shoulders It feels the pain of carrying the entire universe, even if it’s one that is made-up.
But It goes. And that’s the high point you’ll have for a while. The feeling and the sight of It leaving. And it feels good.
It feels good because not too long ago, It never left. Never. It was just a constant state of feeling left behind and alone and sad and melancholic and apathetic. It just never left, ever. Now It does. Fuck knows for how long It will be gone, but It will be gone for a while: and when It comes back, It never overstays its welcome, as It used to. And that’s news for you: that’s good news. So when It comes back, you have tea ready. You have hot tea, and some biscuits, and shortbread too. It will like that. Before It comes back, you set the table, you make the bed, and you open the door. You don’t expect It to break in unannounced Sunday afternoon, as It had to do not long ago.
No. You prepare yourself for It. It comes, It sits down and It talks to you. You listen to It. You listen. There’s wisdom in Its words, as silly and exaggerated as they might sound. There’s at least a bit of wisdom in them. You listen and you answer back. It’s a conversation now: it used to be the two of you either screaming or ignoring one another, but not now. Now you know you can learn from it, if nothing else.
It comes, and It goes. And It comes again.
Featured image: “Moonlight, study” (1878) by Fanny Churberg. Look her up. I mean it.