The view isn’t bad. I’ve always been the one that stares at a rainy street, or a light illuminating the green surrounds. There’s a beauty there in what’s constructed, or inside the average, mundane presence of the world. I need to be clear about that.
It’s the unexceptional and boring that has beauty too, not some magical ‘hidden’ way of looking at the world, but just the existence of what we have.
Sometimes it’s easy. Sometimes the sun and the clouds dance together in a way that bathes the world with gold, and you can feel it in the way the sun thaws your face, or nuzzles it with a kiss of warmth. Even the bits you can’t see, like the wind that sweeps along the street while you’re comfortable at your centre but lapped at by the cold tendrils, there’s a measure of beauty in the existence.
In this case, the view is what’s outside. Structures of stone and cream light up in the autumn sun, peppered with that turquoise green glass that used to be so popular in kitchens a few years back. Maybe it still is, but I haven’t kept up with the trends. Even when it turns cloudy, I appreciate the style of what’s beyond the glass. Even if the monorail had completely left my peripheral vision because it’s completely left the city, the street down there still asks for my attention. It’s where I look to see how a lunchbreak might be, whether it will be sunny or wet, though you can never tell just how windy it’ll be from here.
Right now, there are people with umbrellas. I guess that means rain. Alright, it’s not a wild guess. There was sun out there a few hours back, and the glare from the beach-coloured stone suggests it’s still up there somewhere. This isn’t a particularly wild guess either, as the sun has a thankful habit of continuing to exist.
I’ll go out there soon, take my reading material, and find something worthy of my appetite.
It isn’t that I’m not enjoying the book. I wish that were the extent of it, not that it’s even a thing itself. I’m as engrossed in the book as I’m capable of being. I’m engrossed in something another person has written to my full capacity, but that’s a modicum of escape for someone wanting to scream it. I can’t wait to finish it. Some of that is wanting to see how it turns out, but a huge part of that is needing to continue what I’ve started, and it feels like a cheat to do it before that point of finishing.
There’s a thing that needs doing, and it’s most definitely something for me.
When I leave here, it’ll be dark. It’s a harder point to love, missing the hues and boldness of sunset, but without the contrast that some nights bring. It’ll simply exist and ask to be accepted and the fact of it being Friday will help it, but at the end it won’t be enough, because the way the days are spent can’t justify this way. More than any of the other bits and pieces, this isn’t me. It’s so frightfully far from me that I can feel it in my chest – not a dire panic, but a steady, loamy crush of shortcomings – the inanimate kind I used to have nightmares about.
I can do panic. Panic’s been a mainstay of my secret recipes for a long while, because panic has reasons. Worry tends not to, but wavers without clarity because it concerns itself with things that have none. Worry is being lost in a field of unknowns, but this isn’t that either. All I could call it is a stillness, a static pervasion of sameness and absolutes.
But I don’t want to stay still.
This week’s brought a rainbow of selfs with it. The sphinx’s animal of the arbitrary legs could fit here, because the start brought a colour I haven’t been in decades, the next something more recent and pallid, and yesterday was bright again. I think that’s how they’ve gone, but with today in mind, there’s no real pattern to it.
I think that’s normal. The moods come and go depending, though it’s obvious that each one is a case of me being closer to where I ought to be. No, it’s no longer a want or need. It just is.
When you’re sure you know where you ought to be, it becomes an offence to us when we don’t embrace it. Everything is lost in that same stillness that has one prefer the longer backstreets to the faster run of traffic. We spend more time so that we are actually spending it, rather than having it tick by without eventfulness. We want it to be active, because it will leave us no matter what we do. These few minutes reading my words, they’re gone. I haven’t stolen them. I don’t get them. They’re just… no more.
Belonging matters. So much time takes us to where we exist as mere accessories, where we wait and are ultimately superfluous to other people while still putting our own time second. Our absences are duly noted, but our presence is a mere tick in the box that registers in no memory but our own. Does a contribution exist before it stops existing, or is it the moment when it stops the one that makes it real? Is it the ending or destination that makes us love the story or enjoy the trip, or is that merely something we do in the middle of things?
I have some answers, but they’re a different set every day.
The view doesn’t really matter. It lost its lustre well before I finished, replaced with some version from an alternate universe of gloom and here-ness. There’s elements enough to catch an appreciative eye, especially one given to patience and the longer forms.
What’s clear is that this pursuit is a greater part, one I wish I’d recognised years before, and that while it’ll be some time yet before I’ve reached the first of the next on this endless road of milestones, staying here isn’t going to work any longer. The replacement might be a blip, a beep, or a longer catchy melody that stays with me for a while, but it was never meant to be everything.
If you find your place, when you find it, every part of you has to work toward it. As required as they are, I’m not okay with the sideshow. For years I’d say there was no point changing distractions, because one was the same as another. I’d rather none at all, because nobody goes to the circus for the puppet show alone. If it’s necessary, and so long as it stays a sideshow, maybe a decent one would be tolerable, and I would be okay with that.