That dream again. You know the one, when we aren't together anymore for some reason, and in all my dark despair, I call you in the middle of the falling, pounding rain, just to beg you to take me back, and again, yet again, and time and time again it's 'no' you say. And I give in to that bleak and cold despair, and put myself in front of a rushing car. And that's that for me. Then I wake up, and it was only a dream. I am filled with longing, and with emptiness. I miss you. I love you. I need you. I want you. But you're not here. Not anymore.
How much longer until that dream becomes reality? I know not.
Sunday, 23 June 2013
Sunday, 26 February 2012
The Road to Me : Getting there.
Part one : Becoming João Caferra.
Some brief notions, and a confession : Firstly, I had the basic idea for this post gestating inside me for quite a while now; however, it had a wholly different intent and a slightly different title. You see, (whoever 'you' may be...) up until a few days ago I still harboured hopes of one day re-uniting with my one time paramour, but alas, it is not meant to be. And this post... months ago, when I started thinking about it - the idea was that I'd lay out a plan, a course of action that would put me on the path to her arms once more, and that would have been called, 'The Road to You.'
But that particular road is one that leads me to nowhere; indeed, how can any road lead me anywhere, unless I find first the road to me?
Now, the confession : as the title above indicates, I find myself in a postition not unlike one João Caferra once did, years ago. But wait, who? Who is this person you mention? Well, truth be told I know next to nothing about him, what with having met him all of what?, two-three times?, except that I know that he was my former paramour's old flame.
Now, don't get me wrong - I have nothing against the guy, by all accounts he seemed to be a nice enough guy, and when we did talk, it was always sufficiently pleasant. Nor do I claim that I have become him in regards to life choices (whichever he may have made), or the like.
No. The way I am becoming him has something to do with a look he had in his eyes that first time I met him. It was... I dunno, in 2007, I guess, and the beloved's birthday would include a dinner for some close friends. There is a bit that I don't completely recall surrounding the date, but I know that me and her were somehow a bit... estranged? distant? I don't know, at least I guess I was. Maybe that had something to do with her moving to the Netherlands, but I felt absolutely miserable that day. Somehow it feels as if a part of me wasn't even there. But anyways, there were we; she introduced us, and he sat across the table from me, as I sat by her side, and likely, sometimes there would be a caress between me and her, maybe even a few kisses. And sometimes, sometimes he'd look at me with that look in his eyes, a look that I could not then decipher. It contained equals parts of suspicion, disbelief and... sadness? regret? I don't know.
All I know is that sometimes, when he looked at me, I almost found in his eyes a yearning to be the one who sat beside her, a deep sadness for the distance between them.
As he eyed me thus, I often found myself wondering, then, if he had an issue with me, or something. I never confronted him, nor I had any reason to, but that look in his eyes lingered up until now.
Years have passed, life happened, and my paramour and I went our separate ways. Often I would find myself in the darkest of places, thinking only about what once was, and dreading the terrible certainty of something that would eventually, unavoidably come to pass : the day that I would find that she'd found her happiness in the arms of another, and that the event where I would have to be present to witness that happiness would one day come to pass. Knowing this, instantly I understood just how the guy had felt, all those years ago, and I found myself relating so much to him, these years removed, I almost felt speechless.
And right now, at this very moment, not much of the above has happened... yet. Yes, I know that she is happy now, maybe even happier than ever when we were together, but I have yet to face that terrible crucible the other poor sod years ago. And, hard as it may be for me, when the moment comes, I'll have to be able to deal with it in a grown-up manner. In fact, I must use whatever comes of it in a positive and straightforward way - for it I can achieve that, I will know that inside me things have changed, and that will be yet another step to and for me.
I know that the road to me is a lengthy and hard path to be trodden; I know that even though for most of it, I have to tread all by my lonesome, here and there I'll have another soul beside me. But I know it cannot be done all at a time; it has to be slow and steady, not to win the race, but to win myself back, to find that tranquil spot wherem though some pain may still linger, it has subsided to the point of me not feeling it. It will not happen overnight, nor do I expect it to be an easy journey. All I know, right now, is that it will have to be step by step, the road to me will be taken one step at a time. And this, this is the first step.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
My god, look at what we are now - without regret for all the things that we have done.
It is not love, if love is cold to touch.
It is not belief, when there's nothing there to trust.
Could not submit, would never bring myself to heel.
Determination grows, as each truth is revealed.
Torn and repaired, just to endure it all again.
Without a reason, for my place in all this pain.
Though well concealed, the scars they just compound.
Until there's nothing left of what was my former self.
My god, look at what we are now -
without regret for all the things that we have done.
Thank you for all the doubts, and for all the questioning,
for all the loneliness and for all the suffering.
For all the emptiness, and the scars it left inside.
it inspired in me, an impetus to fight.
For the conviction, for the purpose found along.
For the strength and courage, that in me I've never known.
And if it seems to you, that my words are undeserved,
I write this in gratitude for whatever good it serves.
Sometimes I wish, that you could see me now.
In the rightful place, where I knew that I belong.
Sometimes I wish, that you might someday understand.
to close the chapter, and lay to rest the past.
But nothing would change, we make the best of what we have.
for we are measured by the actions of our lives.
We bide our time, let the future unfold.
Like immortals, in great legends to be told.
My god, look at what we are now -
without regret for all the things that we have done.
Thank you for all the doubts, and for all the questioning,
for all the loneliness and for all the suffering.
For all the emptiness, and the scars it left inside.
it inspired in me, an impetus to fight.
To all who stood with me, when we stood as one.
Thank you for guiding me, for bringing me home.
And if it seems that I'm obliged to say these words,
I write this in gratitude, the least that you deserve.
[And this, this might just be the standout song of the year - at least for me. Once again, the words of Ronan Harris echo exactly what is inside me. My God, indeed. Look at where we are now...]
It is not belief, when there's nothing there to trust.
Could not submit, would never bring myself to heel.
Determination grows, as each truth is revealed.
Torn and repaired, just to endure it all again.
Without a reason, for my place in all this pain.
Though well concealed, the scars they just compound.
Until there's nothing left of what was my former self.
My god, look at what we are now -
without regret for all the things that we have done.
Thank you for all the doubts, and for all the questioning,
for all the loneliness and for all the suffering.
For all the emptiness, and the scars it left inside.
it inspired in me, an impetus to fight.
For the conviction, for the purpose found along.
For the strength and courage, that in me I've never known.
And if it seems to you, that my words are undeserved,
I write this in gratitude for whatever good it serves.
Sometimes I wish, that you could see me now.
In the rightful place, where I knew that I belong.
Sometimes I wish, that you might someday understand.
to close the chapter, and lay to rest the past.
But nothing would change, we make the best of what we have.
for we are measured by the actions of our lives.
We bide our time, let the future unfold.
Like immortals, in great legends to be told.
My god, look at what we are now -
without regret for all the things that we have done.
Thank you for all the doubts, and for all the questioning,
for all the loneliness and for all the suffering.
For all the emptiness, and the scars it left inside.
it inspired in me, an impetus to fight.
To all who stood with me, when we stood as one.
Thank you for guiding me, for bringing me home.
And if it seems that I'm obliged to say these words,
I write this in gratitude, the least that you deserve.
[And this, this might just be the standout song of the year - at least for me. Once again, the words of Ronan Harris echo exactly what is inside me. My God, indeed. Look at where we are now...]
Monday, 8 August 2011
Six long, long years of waiting...
You are my desire, I set you free.
The thing about birthdays, right, is that even though I neither want or expect anything, I always end up wanting one thing specifically, and I never, ever get it. I know that last year I desperately wanted something - so simple, and yet... and yet so elusive - something not material, something that only words could express, especially because there was a distance that proved to be too great.
And this year, I find myself wanting something similar, and again, I shall not have what I desire.
And this year, I find myself wanting something similar, and again, I shall not have what I desire.
Friday, 29 July 2011
Impossible, impossible... Your love is something I cannot remember.
29/07/2006. Five years ago today.
I know it's impossible, impossible.
I know it's impossible, impossible.
Sunday, 26 June 2011
Choosing to die.
I am told by my sister that our father lies very ill in bed, in a hospital. The seriousness of this illness is apparently terminal, but for reasons pretty much my own, I cannot feel moved to go visit him, and see him for one final time, not even out of courtesy. When the day comes that he passes from this world, I am sure I shall not regret this stance I am adopting, nor shall I shed a tear for him. Too much went wrong between us, there are distances that cannot be covered, gaps that cannot be bridged, and feelings that were never there in the first place cannot be magically brought into existence just because. And, in all honesty, I feel that it would be an hipocrisy on my part if, and bearing all this I have just written in mind, I went and visited the man, and played the part of the weeping and grieving son, because that's just not who I am. I feel nothing for him, never have felt, I don't even feel sorry for him. And, even as I write this, I can freely admit that I am not opposed, in principle, to visiting him - it's just a matter of me having the proper mindset and the free time to actually go to a fucking hospital and pay my respects. I do have to say that should I go there, I just wouldn't be moved by the situation at all - even if were I to hear all kinds of words of regret, and apologies, and whatnots... the damage was done in such a scale and so long ago that they just would not ring right to me.
It is a very cruel and difficult thing, I should imagine, to freely and openly vouchsafe the absence of feelings for someone who gave life to you. I have no problems doing that, because I never considered that a physiological accident is enough to make one some poor child's father...
I feel naught for this man, and yet... yet I found myself deeply and terribly moved by the words of someone whom I have never met personally, who never spoke so much as a word directly to me, but whose presence in my life has been so constant and strong that it broke my heart in a million tiny pieces to hear him speak of his choice to willingly terminate his own life.
I speak, of course, of Sir Terry Pratchett, creator of the Discworld, writer of some of the very best books ever written, a peerless wit, and one more victim of that ravager of minds - Alzheimer's.
In 'Choosing to die', the writer tells us with vivid descriptions of his own struggles with the disease, and how, like a carrion bird that delights itself in nibbling slowly the carcass of some dead animal, his own mind is slowly - and surely - deteriorating, to the extent that his short term memory is very limited these days, and much to his own tragedy, he can no longer write by himself - his assistant types what he dictates, or he uses a special speech recognition software.
The documentary focus not only on him, but also on a number of people who suffer from terminally deteriorating diseases, and who chose to voluntarily put an end to their suffering via the Swiss organization Dignitas. These people were of sound mind when they chose theirt ultimate fate, and as you listen to their plights, you can only feel so very sorry for how things played out for them; they genuinely seemed to be excellent people who deserved far more from life than this. Their choice to commit assited suicide, however, also serve to inform Pratchett's own ongoing quest to decide whether or not he too will make the same choice. His is a situation a bit different from all others, though. For one has to be of sound mind when one makes the final decision, one must consciously be aware of what he is about to do. Pratchett's disease will ultimately rob him of his mind, leaving him with the option to either let the disease run rampant and fall prey to the dementia that will eventually overtake him, or he makes the decision, while his mind is still clear, to end it all.
So these doubts, these questions, they are all thrown at us from the writer's perspective. Briefly though it may be, we walk side by side with Pratchett as he braves the path towards the end of his days. This documentary in incredibly powerful and moving, but it's not for the faint of heart. Things are said, stories are told, and we are shown a mighty heart-rending moment, when all we hold as true to ourselves is put into question.
I am coming to accept that very soon there will be no more new Pratchett books, I'll never read a new tale of Ankh-Morpork's fabled City Watch, never again be entertained by the raucuous Nanny Ogg or the Nac Mac Feegle, I'll never again read of Rincewind's exploits, nor surf through the eternal cold of space riding atop Great A'tuin.
What I will hold forever with me is the memories that I have from having read so many times his books, books that I'll return to time and time again while I live. I will always remember sharing his books with the love of my life. I will always remember the thrill that is buying one of his new books.
The day may come when his voice is silenced forever, but his words will always live on inside me.
It is a very cruel and difficult thing, I should imagine, to freely and openly vouchsafe the absence of feelings for someone who gave life to you. I have no problems doing that, because I never considered that a physiological accident is enough to make one some poor child's father...
I feel naught for this man, and yet... yet I found myself deeply and terribly moved by the words of someone whom I have never met personally, who never spoke so much as a word directly to me, but whose presence in my life has been so constant and strong that it broke my heart in a million tiny pieces to hear him speak of his choice to willingly terminate his own life.
I speak, of course, of Sir Terry Pratchett, creator of the Discworld, writer of some of the very best books ever written, a peerless wit, and one more victim of that ravager of minds - Alzheimer's.
In 'Choosing to die', the writer tells us with vivid descriptions of his own struggles with the disease, and how, like a carrion bird that delights itself in nibbling slowly the carcass of some dead animal, his own mind is slowly - and surely - deteriorating, to the extent that his short term memory is very limited these days, and much to his own tragedy, he can no longer write by himself - his assistant types what he dictates, or he uses a special speech recognition software.
The documentary focus not only on him, but also on a number of people who suffer from terminally deteriorating diseases, and who chose to voluntarily put an end to their suffering via the Swiss organization Dignitas. These people were of sound mind when they chose theirt ultimate fate, and as you listen to their plights, you can only feel so very sorry for how things played out for them; they genuinely seemed to be excellent people who deserved far more from life than this. Their choice to commit assited suicide, however, also serve to inform Pratchett's own ongoing quest to decide whether or not he too will make the same choice. His is a situation a bit different from all others, though. For one has to be of sound mind when one makes the final decision, one must consciously be aware of what he is about to do. Pratchett's disease will ultimately rob him of his mind, leaving him with the option to either let the disease run rampant and fall prey to the dementia that will eventually overtake him, or he makes the decision, while his mind is still clear, to end it all.
So these doubts, these questions, they are all thrown at us from the writer's perspective. Briefly though it may be, we walk side by side with Pratchett as he braves the path towards the end of his days. This documentary in incredibly powerful and moving, but it's not for the faint of heart. Things are said, stories are told, and we are shown a mighty heart-rending moment, when all we hold as true to ourselves is put into question.
I am coming to accept that very soon there will be no more new Pratchett books, I'll never read a new tale of Ankh-Morpork's fabled City Watch, never again be entertained by the raucuous Nanny Ogg or the Nac Mac Feegle, I'll never again read of Rincewind's exploits, nor surf through the eternal cold of space riding atop Great A'tuin.
What I will hold forever with me is the memories that I have from having read so many times his books, books that I'll return to time and time again while I live. I will always remember sharing his books with the love of my life. I will always remember the thrill that is buying one of his new books.
The day may come when his voice is silenced forever, but his words will always live on inside me.
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