Not an Oracle

Insomnia. She's an evil mistress. I thought I had succeeded in abolishing these debilitating bouts of sleeplessness that had haunted me in the past. I thought I had finally gotten myself in to a normal routine where sleep was not something I both desperately craved and feared at the same time. However, this turned out not to be the case.

She returned a few nights ago.

Good old insomnia.

I lay there for hours and hours on end recalling all the tricks of the trade that you can utilise in an attempt to try and quiet a restless mind. I counted. I meditated. I tried to empty my brain of all thoughts. I got up and paced frantically around the room. I tried to read a book. I tried to listen to music but alas the concept of sweet slumber appeared to be nothing more than a fallacy. I guess the one good thing about not being able to sleep is that it frees up some time to do some work. So last night in the small hours, I tackled doing some editing work. For the most part, it served useful despite the fact that I was still anxiously cursing my body for not allowing me to sleep during the process. I'm always asking for more hours in the day but I would also like to sleep.

It begins with a sensation.

Like a fist to the stomach, an ice cold bath, a paper cut. Sharp and fast.
I'm standing at the top of the stairs and the sensation arrives, swift and direct, and the blood surges through my veins like lava and yes, I am ready to erupt. I am standing at the top of the stairs and the overwhelming urge to throw myself down its short flight of twenty steps grips me. Yet, these steps are not cushioned with linoleum or carpet, these are hard, cold concrete slaps and I want my skull to greet each one with a sickening crack. I want my bones to twist and snap and bend and break. I want my spine to shatter like peanut brittle. I want to feel each moment as I break and lose my shape. I don't want to recognise the reflection.

I've been here before.

Standing on the curb edge, waiting for the three tonne lorry to pass. Imagining what it would feel like to marry my flesh to it's hot metal. Or walking by the river, I wonder what it would be like to try to swallow it whole. The bubbles escaping from the corners of my mouth as I submerge further. I let it all in. Sinking deeper into the abyss.

Yet, it is fleeting. As quick as the sensation takes hold, it releases me from its clasp. Offering me a moment to look inside the cacophony of madness. It's like looking inside a large shell. The softest whisper is transformed in to a vibrating pulse that can not be escaped. It rings in your ears and the claws slide in.

And then it's gone.

Like a hypnotist snapping his fingers, his volunteer is brought back from the trance. He may be slightly dazed, bewildered even; what did he just experience? He's not quite sure but he knows it was fraught with danger. There's a relief afterwards. Thank god that's over with. Whatever that sensation was, whatever it meant, it's done with. Except as the willing volunteer stands up from the hypnotist's chair, he realises that he was not so willing after all and he's signed a contract with that sensation now. As sure as the sun rises each morning, that sensation is set to return.

It's a strange feeling when you come to the realisation that nothing will ever be the same again. We might think things are constant, we might even indulge in the same fruitless activities day in and day out with the preconception that it's ALWAYS THE SAME. But it's not. Somewhere, clock hands are turning, seasons are making their small changes daily, cells die and replicate. They are all making their subtle changes. As are we.

As I sit here on a cold Sunday in July, listening to the rain which hasn't ceased all day and Beach House's 'Apple Orchard' on repeat, I realise that I'm clambering to hold on to the things I've lost. Those seemingly endless hours of youth where adulthood felt as though it was an alien life-form living in a far off galaxy.

This was the moment the mild epiphany (if you can really call it that) occurred.

And you will have to forgive me for indulging in one or two clichés here, but sometimes they convey the idea in the simplest manner. Why spend time looking backwards when it has no use anymore? The past is the place we have come from but it sure isn't where we are going (unless time travel is discovered to be a reality). It's like being stuck in mud and you're facing the wrong way. You are not able to see any of the opportunities in front of you because you're fixed in one position, looking in the wrong damned direction!

I guess, I am a creature of habit and there's a certain security in looking at the past. It can't have any immediate effect on you. It's all over and done with and all you have to show for it is are a few fragmented memories, a bunch of scratches and scars and a little/infinite knowledge firing its way around inside of your skull. We may have collected all these things from the past and carry them around with us on a daily basis but there is no point in utilising them only to study how they were obtained back in the past and they may not even serve any purpose in the years ahead. However, one thing's for sure, the things coming at you, from this illusive concept we know as 'the future' sure can.

I will be frank.

- There are days when you don't wake up because you haven't slept all night.

- You've lost track of what day/month/year it is and all you can feel is a sense of dread as you try to systematically recall what day it was yesterday.

- You wonder if the thud in your chest is caused by your heart beating or your soul trying to escape.

- You find yourself going through the motions despite not knowing how you got from point A to point B because you were internally scolding yourself for not sleeping last night. This is then proceeded by you being mad at yourself for 'self-scolding' because you know it can't be helped.

- You successfully manage to make it out of the door and you wonder 'now what?' and 'is this it?' The best questions seem to consist of two or three words. Each word resembling an injection of antifreeze, a piano falling on your head, a second lost.

- You try to conclude whether you are 'wasting time' or 'losing time' and what the difference is between the two.

- You realise that these were some of the thoughts plaguing your bed the previous night so you try to distract yourself.

- You read a newspaper but each story takes you from one horror to the next and you scour the pages attempting to find something they call 'good news' but you're suddenly at the obituaries and it all seems crystal clear now.

Summers seemed to stretch on for ever when I was younger. Each day would be filled with a untapped sense of euphoria and the scent of freshly mowed grass. For a few weeks I was offered a chance to experience true freedom. The rigmarole of attending school Monday to Friday was temporarily abolished and the only commitments to adhere to relied solely on eating, sleeping and how many books I could consume over the course of a week. Those were the good aspects. Of course growing up on a council estate proved interesting (for lack of a better word) and the extra free time meant having to be slightly more aware of my surroundings. Some days I had to do my best to avoid the gangs of teenagers that seemed to flock at each end of the block or not make eye contact with the Heroin addict who offered her 'services' by trying to seduce the slightly older boys so she could get her next fix. I'm sure she wasn't aware that the baseball cap and the way her eyes rolled in the back of her head weren't doing her any favours. There was also the summer a registered sex offender moved in and not to mention the number of times I had to skip over the plethora of used syringes and condoms that littered the estate like gifts that had escaped Bad Santa's sack. An insane version of Hopscotch. You don't realise these things aren't normal when you're younger. I spent those sun-tinged days imagining how my future summers would play out. I was well aware that there wouldn't be a reprieve for six weeks once I had gotten a job, yet the concept of adulthood seemed like an illusion.

Sometimes I would be friends with some of the other kids on the estate but mostly I wasn't. There was always that seed of an idea that I 'wasn't like them'. At this point, the idea of being gay in a place like that was not only unheard of, it would probably be beaten out of existence. I guess I was lucky in the sense that I was deeply in denial about that aspect of my lifestyle until I was Seventeen. Needless to say, I enjoyed the summer holidays. It meant I didn't have to be in school and I can only liken that feeling to what I would imagine it would be like for a wrongly convicted criminal to be released from Death Row. Sometimes, the summer nights got a little hard to bear especially when the house was opened up to host an all night party. The loud music and shouting from downstairs would pummel the floorboards and my sister and I spent many late nights sitting at the top of the stairs, trying to make sense of the drunken ruckus below. The worst part was the morning and the heavy stench of sticky alcohol and cigarette smoke that hung in the air. However, there was still a distinct feeling that 'anything could happen'. For some reason those few weeks in summer brought with them a promise of change. Even if it was just temporary.

I would spend afternoons lay on my bedroom floor, feet perched on my bed, watching the clouds roll past my window. I would attempt to see past that blue void and see if there was another world just waiting on the other side. It doesn't sound like much but this was when I was at my happiest. Some days the other kids would let me play with them; I remember collecting ladybugs in recycled yoghurt pots and picking cherries from the trees which have now been long cut down and built upon. Sometimes the kids would play a game called 'Let's run away from...'. I think the point was that they would insert a name at the end of the sentence and then proceed to run away from 'said person'. As soon as one of them piped up, 'let's run away from...' in a sing-song voice and a smile on their face, something in my chest fell into my baron stomach and I didn't need a mirror to know my face had transformed into a translucent shade of pale. Of course, the name was always mine, maybe it was because they knew they could get away from me because I was a little bit bigger and a little bit slower. Maybe it was because they just wanted to get away. I would compensate the experience by going for a walk, pretending I was going somewhere when really I was hoping that the destination would find me. Most often or not I would return home to read for countless hours. Joining the local library had probably saved me from being consumed by that estate. Finally, I was able to escape. It was as easy as turning over a page. I had even taken to writing my own stories upon my grandmother's old typewriter. The summer allowed me to open up the door to experience as many different worlds and characters as possible. The pages melted away and I was suddenly transposed into the stories and I didn't have to think about who or where I was.

This was summer.

Breaking out of the habit is the hardest thing you can do. Leaving the comfort and safety of what you already know is not an easy feat. But this is the only way to truly live; to drink up the new and open your arms to opportunities before they perish on the vine. Grow wise and be cautious but walk on that ledge and immerse yourself in the sights. The bright, bright lights and the biting breeze. The raw freedom that comes with taking a risk.

This is how life should be.

Shatter your preconceptions and never assume anything. Never take anything for granted and love like it will never last. Because it never will. Celebrate the small things and take time to look up at the stars and the sun and the moon because the answers come when we tilt our heads upwards. Connect your feet to the ground and walk wherever you can. Make that connection between your body and the land, like it was always meant to be. Be outside and live outside of yourself. The truth will come to you that way. Stretch away anything that holds you back and learn to let things go.

That is how it needs to be.

Life is about throwing all your pieces into a box. From the small assortment of mis-shaped items of your personality to the larger fragments of memories and experiences. Then closing the lid and shaking it so hard that it feels as though your arms are about to fall off. To experience life is to open up the lid and try and make sense of what is remaining inside.

It no doubt won't be pretty and it sure won't be easy trying to furiously fit those pieces together when it looks like you have five corner pieces amidst the pile. YOU MAKE IT WORK. It takes a little time and a bucket-load of motivation. Take the support if you have it. More hands can help lighten the load but be sure that you have organisation. If one of you is trying to fit the edges together and the other one is also using some of those pieces, you'll never complete the puzzle. That's all it is at the end of the day. A puzzle. A game. The lucky ones may get to finish theirs earlier on, some may never even get to understand the big picture from the mass of pieces they have to work with.

AT LEAST YOU TRIED.

I'm disappearing and they never warned me that it would be so difficult to remove red wine stains from the rug. A scar upon it's surface.
I'm disappearing and they don't tell you what decay smells like until you have experienced it for yourself. Skin blackened and ready to burst from the lightest of touches but you just can't bring yourself to lay your fingers upon the rancid looking flesh.
I'm disappearing and I've forgotten what it feels like to not have to worry about the undefinable future. To see through it's deceitful veil and know not of what it brings nor be affected by it's endless outcomes.

I'm disappearing and I know that they look upon me with fear in their eyes. Maybe it's not fear, maybe it's something rooted a little bit deeper. Of contempt. They do not wish to allow that sort of torture unsheathe inside of them. To feel it's pin prick as it begins to unravel and systematically shut down each of their functioning body parts. It's not your problem, it's someone else's but therein lies the problem. Not a singular person to surrender and suck the venom from the bite.
I'm disappearing but I guess you knew that already.

The world comes at you a little differently when you're tired. It seeks to get under your skin and whisper in your ear clambering seed-sized phrases of regret, of washed-up lies and misguided flakes of advice. It will proceed to pin you firmly against the wall and take a balled-up fist to you whilst you try your best to recite a prayer you remember learning in school. The fatigue seeps through each and every muscle and you know that it will do no good to fight back. So you take each hit as best as you can.
One - for the time you stayed up all night trying to find the words to say that you're not as strong as you might believe.
Two - for the day when you wandered the streets relinquishing the thoughts of stepping out into a busy road.
Three - for the time you drank yourself into an abyss and awoke to find yourself in a strangers bed.

Four, five, six.

You take them all and you swallow each association and you turn them into hard little stones that will forever reside within your physical body. They are part of you now and those stitched-in wishes that you created on your eighteenth birthday have now fallen to the wayside. You remind yourself that it is okay. You're tired, the world is coming at you this way because you're just a little weaker today. Nothing is permanent and this too will fade away as you learn to stop counting the hits.

The brain has a hard time filtering out the bits of information it requires and the bits of information that would be better suited on a waste disposal heap. Scientists have yet to invent a brain button that when switched on can allow us to pay attention to the useful data and avoid the worthless and sometimes harmful information that is directed at us each and every day. This is why I have a hard time with social media.

The bombardment of other people's lives, success's, opinions, comments and rants all culminated in one place is just too much. This is not to say that I have not dipped my toe in social media, I would be a hypocrite to condemn and yet not mention how I have a whole foot submerged in its ever widening pool. It's a Catch 22 situation. I can't deny how effective it can be as a tool. When used correctly it can be harnessed to promote messages of hope or of charity; a place for people to come together and share thoughts on particular subjects and allow for discussion on important and sometimes even unimportant matters. The problem is that with all tools, when not handled the correct way can be used for destruction as opposed to creation. Misinformation can spread like wildfire, things can be interpreted incorrectly to devastating effect, people can openly post their prejudices and ignorance and have it 'liked'. It also becomes a place of competition. How many pictures of a recent holiday can be uploaded or how many status updates about how wonderful their new job is can we tolerate? Or alternatively, those passive aggressive posts about an unnamed person that did something but you don't want to say what because 'they know who they are' or another attention grabbing headline that begs for credibility based solely upon the number of likes and comments it obtains. It can seem somewhat insensitive by saying this but social media breeds shallow behaviour. It's all well and fine keeping friends and family updated with one or two messages or photos about a particular event or something that may have happened; but it becomes too much when it turns into a 5000 word essay on how Heather from HR used your onion relish at work this lunch-time or you feel the need to post 63 pictures of your new car each tagged with the entirety of your friends list just in case one of them missed it. Maybe it's for lack of new cars or onion relish but I can't participate in that forum anymore. Until they can invent a self-censor button that prevents people from oversharing or from passively aggressively trying to communicate a message via cryptic updates I will not dip my proverbial toe in there again.

We're all just human-shaped balls of energy zipping around the planet, some of us destroying stuff, some of us creating stuff. Taking, giving, stealing, losing, consuming, purging. Needless to say, it's all an exchange. Taking or losing, sometimes simultaneously, sometimes over long periods of time. In one hundred years it won't matter anyway and yet it still baffles me at what lengths some people will go to in order to accumulate that little bit of extra energy for themselves; whether it be in the name of money or power, it doesn't matter. It's a loss for another person. It's an exchange, for those that receive, someone has to give, whether voluntary or with no choice at all. Some of us have understood the concept of trading, an equal exchange. I will give you something and you will give me something in return. I scratch your back and you scratch mine, or insert whichever metaphor you prefer to use. There's too much focus on what one can accumulate over time and less focus on what can be done in order to help each other. With this mission statement of 'Accumulate. Gain and Conquer' there is only one future direction.

Implosion.

Morning arrives in its usual manner. Tangled bed sheets try to persuade me to stay rooted in a pleasurable dream state. The pillow creases on my face serve to remind me of the war I waged in the attempt to place bare feet on the cold floor and accept that the day has begun. Coffee consumed, teeth cleaned, mirror attacked, eyes closed, deep breath, headphones in, music on.

The roads are traveled and the thoughts are thought, sometimes blue skies and a welcoming sun. Sometimes, drizzle and the harsh attack of the wind. Words are spoken, the daily habits are played out, the script is adhered to, word for mundane word. I remind myself that it is not their fault that they do not know.

The light changes as Lady dusk begins to descend and soothe the land with her waning lullaby. A song that is only sung when an ending has begun. Yet it doesn't matter that I've heard this song before and I know the words like they've been carved on the bones beneath my skin. Shoes off, exhalation, curtains drawn, body fed, words spill.

Sometimes we have to get off the train once in a while. Even if it's just for a day or two or longer. Sometimes we need to try and slow down the forward-motion and take a side-step. Before you know it, a year has passed or a decade has dissolved into a few faded memories and you've withered on the vine. There's no stopping the orbit or the changing seasons or the direction of the winds but we can choose the direction of the day. We pause, we breathe, we take in the view. We ground ourselves and get back on the train, whether it be 11am or 11pm, we take our ticket and we get on board.

They chew you up and spit you out and you're left to face the rest on your own. So don't let them. It's often difficult to face the daily battles especially when the world is drained of any colour and all you can see is various tones of grey and the drizzle clings to your pale, clammy skin like unwanted kisses. But you have to dig out that old battered rain coat and wear it with pride. You've got to manufacture your own sunlight and you've got to learn how to pulverise that grey sky until it gives you a little colour. Even if it means beating the absolute shit out of it. It has to come at all costs. They might not know about the turmoil and they might not understand that the prospect of putting your shoes on and greeting the day comes with its own challenges. It isn't their fault. It takes a little time to solve the crossword puzzle especially when you are aren't given any clues. Three across: A bitter pill to swallow. Nine down: Another word for dusk. We're not machines, we're not programmed to react and respond in a particular way. If you hand me a pen I can't guarantee that I won't write a love note or an instruction manual on how to fool the world. Maybe I will just settle with a list of apologies or I will tell you about the time I hid under the bed for three hours too afraid to move. The ones who wait are the ones you should keep. Remember their names and remember their birthdays, the small details are often the most important. And if you can wait for someone else then they will remember your birthday too. It's all about the details, the simple things, the way we connect. And if we can apologise to the world and know that it's true, then let it be. Let it swallow you whole and rock you to sleep. Let it consume you even if it is just for one brief, sweet moment. They might not notice that you left the room but they sure will notice when you make your return. Don't forget their names. They won't forget yours.

Let's generalise people for a few minutes shall we? I'd like to think that people can be lumped into three categories. These are, the Brain People, the Guts People and the Heart People. Before you start thinking that I am going off on some sort of zombie dietary preference scheme or listing a collection of new-found fraternity-led cult groups, let me clarify a little more.

There are certain people who behave a specific way in life, the Brain People like to think about decisions and actions before actually acting upon them. They like to analyse and cautiously weigh up the pros and cons. Then you have the Guts People who don't think about their actions or behaviour, they just go with it. And lastly, you have the Heart People who follow their instinct which may require a little bit of help from the top (the brain) and a little help from below (the guts) in order to proceed. Heart People are literally the middle ground people and this suits quite nicely, what with the heart located right between brain and guts, physically speaking.

I'm a Brain Person and I have to be honest, it's pretty damn infuriating. I mean, I love that I have the ability to think things through fully... It's pretty useful and all that, but boy do I hate overanalysing things! It is literally exhausting. It would be nice to experience one day as a Guts Person and proceed with reckless abandon. I could stick my two middle fingers up to the world and say 'fuck it, I'm doing it my way today.' Nevertheless, as a Brain Person, I am inclined to stop and think about that action before pursuing it. Talk about frustrating. I read an article not too long ago about how on average, we have about 50,000 to 70,000 thoughts a day. My first thought (no irony intended) was 'there is without no doubt more traffic in my brain than a measly 70,000 thought count. These researchers need to recruit more Brain People. Heart People seem to have the best of both worlds, with a little access to the brain and a little access to their guts they can move through life with relative ease. They can be happy that they made an informed decision and followed it through with the courage sparingly provided by their lower region. They can be blissfully at ease and without regret that they didn't miss out on an opportunity because they spent too much time thinking about the consequences and didn't have the guts to act upon it. They have the best of both worlds. The brain and guts are just too far apart, they don't have the magic power of the heart in order to be accessible to one another.

I am thinking that I may need to develop some sort of lobotomy procedure that prevents me from going over the 70,000 thought limit and in turn will hopefully cause me to metamorphosis into a Heart Person. However, this is going to require a lot of planning and a lot of thinking. Leave it with me, I'll let my brain chew upon it.