Surrounded by bureaucratic paraphranalia, envelopes across my desk like leaves in autumn gutters, I am working the best I can. There is little to fill my time and thoughts are coursing through my synapses. Broken memories and broken dreams are colliding. There is so much I need to say to certain people.
I am afraid.
Humour is no substitute for truth.
Aching clasps my sternum, heaving, trying to bend to snap. I'm trying to show in snippets how much I can care and at the same time appear unthreatening. I don't want to scare people away. Bend my ear, I'm not going to go away.
Some where inside me there is an unexplained object that scares me more than alienating those I care about. Having been given an appointment with a consultant I am only more scared. More than the incessant Westbury lonliness, the cancer word, however unlikly hovers in my brain. I know I'm young, I know it would be very unlikely, but there's always that one in a million chance.
There's always that one in a million chance if I get a phonecall this evening it will be words I want to hear. But the reality is it will bring more pain and hurt and longing and not having and ending.
There's a one in a million chance I'll be happy again. That I'll be able to live through all this mess and be who I was supposed to be.
I wish I was like Chris and couldn't feel. For all my posturing, for all my you need to know the lowest lows to understand when you're having the highest highs, I hate having these huge sweeps between bliss and despair. The rest of the world burbles by without thinking for a second how we are a blink in the eye of the universe, that we are less than air particles moved by said eye's eyelash. Oh how to be so ignorant. My head swims with my aches and hurts and desires, but trembles, quivers at the insignificance of it all and berates myself for worrying over something so meaningless.
I am not changing the world. I'm not making anyone's life better. I am not one of the chosen few who can.
My current book, 'How the bible became a book" fills me with questions I cannot have answered. There is no one here to discuss the things that I love to dissect and I feel this absence.
I miss late night conversations about creators and gods and politics looking at glow in the dark stars.
I miss hiding in the history reading room and finding things that make me buzz with ideas and knowing I'm alive and in this place that I was so clearly meant to be.
I wish on stars and floating seeds. Always the same green star of a wish. That I might get that one chance to try.