Tales of


A poem starts like this:

There are still bits of night like closed eyes in the walls

There are things that drive a wedge into your life. You’ll have a before and after. A violent change in the current that you’re on. Sometimes it fucks you up and sometimes.. well. It always fucks you up I guess, but sometimes it ends well.

Let’s jump to past nothings where a wedge is flying towards us. It’s grinning silver smiles and is strangely alluring in its finality. I’m a confused writer in London with great ambitions and it’s my first time living outside of Estonia. You see, back then I thought: ‘If I could only get out. If I could only get out, Kerouac would point his finger straight at me. Keats would recite his poems to me in some forgotten dive bar.’
But nothing can live up to that. Nothing can live up to dreams. The dreams are often more real then reality itself. It’s a self-preservation thing, you see?

Its part of being human, I guess, losing dreams.

But I had envisioned something grand and I couldn’t find it. I was getting rejected a lot. Gradually I grew unhappy with myself and with my work which lead to losing someone very dear to me. Things got worse after that and I became obsessed with work. I would do nothing else but fret and study. I still am like this to some extent. Everything is fueling the work, still. Every relationship, every fight. Every time I do good or do bad, something in the back of my head goes: ‘Well, can we use this?’

There are still bits of night like closed eyes in the walls
And at their feet the large brotherhood of bones

Is still asleep

 

When you get broken, your mind goes into overdrive. It starts to look for a fix. The world slows down and you start getting reckless. You get a death wish. You’re unsure if you should check for cars when passing a street. High places get awfully tempting. For a week you run a knife up and down the length of your arm.

Is this sounding awful edgy? I guess. A young kid going through his first breakup, big whoop?
It’s that TOO. It’s a mess of great meanings and pointless posturings.
A better writer wrote about this:

“Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”

But… Hope came.

And I started doing things I was afraid of.

I went and did improv. Danced. Acted Shakespeare. Wrote a play. Spent time rebuilding myself alone and among people.

I said yes to everything and very, very slowly I didn’t want to kill myself anymore.

Now, there might be deeper depths to sadness and life will surely provide them, but I’m not afraid of pain or loss or anything anymore. Not really. Everything you lose comes back at the end, I promise.
In one way or another.

There are still bits of night like closed eyes in the walls
And at their feet the large brotherhood of broken stones
Is still asleep
I go quietly along the edge of their garden
Looking at the few things they grow for themselves

Birthday coming up. Yay.

 

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