ecappaccino's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 333 - the absolute Things that seem epic wind up epically. I have a lot of things I want to say. Soon, I will say them to the relevant people. To realize a week before leaving everything that you had been doing this for six months is a little traumatic. Just a little. We need to talk. Properly. Soberly. Sol. Don't let me fly off to Australia without doing that. My father said when I came home, at the end of the second evening, you live in a sandcastle. You see nobody except yourself. There is no solid ground. The tide comes in. The castle slowly crumbles. You drown. Your life is a mess - I tried to be sympathetic, but I don't feel sorry for you at all. Why does it hurt this much? I asked you. You said, Because it's me, and held me while I cried. Because it was true. And because I was drunk, and couldn't pretend otherwise. In a way I'm happy I made a scene. I think you deserve that much. I'm glad I didn't swallow it and pretend it didn't matter. It does. It matters so much. I love this place. I love these people. You. Her. Gaaythri. Athena. The rise of the university clock tower. The smell of the sea. Piha at night, the brooding landscape. Piha in the daylight, crashing surf and our warm bodies. The city lights from Mt Eden. One Tree Hill - the way the leaves fall, and how we used to tread our way through them in our walks through Cornwall Park. Waiting for you to come home from work. Promises. The way I loved you, even then. The times I crept through the dark to meet you. The way your shampoo smelt. My 16th birthday. Beating you at Monopoly. The time you phoned me up, drunk. The other phone calls. Letters. The time waiting for my bus three years ago - what you said. Losing myself in the blankets of my mother's bed, secured by someone else's arms. Hope. All those lies I chose to believe. Squinting at Christmas lights out of her window. Crying in the Rialto cinema toilets. Gaayathri, the sea, the hollow of the kumara pit. Auckland city, rain, the fading away of daylight. Sorrow. Brushing the hair away from your face as you lay curled yesterday morning, both of us silenced. Asking you over and over to roll over and face me. The memory of someone else curling into me on another bed. Waiting, endless waiting. The look on your face the other night, like doors closing in on themselves. A slight collapse. Dizziness. I love. That should have been enough. It wasn't. It never is. You made a choice. So did I. But here's what I think. I think that this is the age when we all burn. We burn brightly, furiously, incandescently. There is touch - there is the immediacy of life, and its transcendence into the extraordinary. We are not human beings. We are immortals trapped inside these damp skins. Trapped by each cell, and each cell trapped inside a plasma membrane, living. We collide to break free - we yearn. This is what it is to be alive. Happiness. The sharpness, clarity of everything. Hurt. Utter cruelty. Right here, right now - every breath, every memory of good and bad things. Remember this. Remember this. I am being torn away from this. When I come back everything that is burning now, that I am burning with now, will have evolved and cooled - become rock, stone. I want to burn here with everyone and become part of the same solidness. Be made out of the same things, and if thrown and blown around, still carry the same residue or the earth that we all made ablaze. We are not errors in the landscape. We are this landscape. I have lived here - truly lived here...furiously and divinely. This is life. We are alive. That is enough. That is enough. Energy changes, but can never be lost. We change, but we are not lost. I am still learning. 1:34 pm - 02-11-06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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