Mist eddies silently through the quiet streets, drifting moisture-laden clouds that breathe cool on my face and slick vapour into pores until I look down and see tiny droplets of water glistening on the sweep of arm and know my face shimmers like the pulsing dark around me. I gaze up into the shrouded night and feel the sky press around me and in that secret part of myself hear the resonation of something just beyond the curling mist.
Do you ever feel so restless that your skin crawls along the tendons and muscles of your body, a flickering live thing, so you shudder and your skin dances as if an independent cog and not an intricate part of corporeal reality of self?
The Celt in me trembles and feels the weight of possibilities pressing against my soul, pushing maybes into the tangled web of possibilities entrenched in each of our souls, unfledged, deep inside mind and heart. For each of us carries with us the promise of new beginnings, new paths to explore and tributaries overhung with potential and the promise of finding peace.
Moisture weeps from dark morning and sweeps in on factitious winds that tug tendrils of hair from the bundled mass at the nape of my neck, as I slip through clouds of mist and fog which soften and obscure familiar streets and lends to them an air of mystery. A heavy strand of hair becomes unanchored and with a sigh flutters across my face, scented of vanilla and spice and the hot warmth of body.
I’ve realized lately that I seem to have lost some vital parts of who I used to be. The reactions garnered from certain situations have shocked me in the message delivered and prodded me into some uncomfortable soul-searching to ascertain whether those pieces can be regained or are lost forever.
Do you ever look in a mirror and wonder what the hell happened to the person you thought you knew?
The physical realities of aging are inevitable (which I think SUCKS incidentally) and from that perspective I find myself sometimes appalled when I see their realities embossed on my flesh. Because from inside looking out, one never feels all that much different, it is sometimes shocking to see a stranger looking back.
But more emphatic are the emotional and spiritual impacts of maturity. This whole middle aged crisis thing for instance, joking aside, has proven to carry both positive and negative implications – but thus far, seems inevitably entwined with some kind of pain. Now for a masochist, that is not always necessarily a bad thing but there is pain that liberates and pain that cripples and while I internalize that change in itself brings discomfort, some of the revelations I’m being granted have been unwelcome and hurt something deep inside.
I have burrowed deep down into the hidden nooks of my elemental self, seeking the spurious safety of dark, hidden places to mask the totality of my capitulation to sorrow. I have hidden beneath my skin, removed myself from behind my eyes, do they dim? Is their spring green less brilliant?
There is a comfort in separating from sorrow.
There is a calm to be achieved from refusing to feel.
But there is, despite my whinging, a commensurate comprehension of events and insight conferred that carries with it an ironic satisfaction and a niggling sense of rightness. Because in truth, the intellectual in me cannot help but savour the mental acuity which I have gained while the optimist (who I thought, truth to be told, had expired) is quivering and wiggling a little modicum of hope.
I continue to marvel at the complexity of the human animal and its infinite ability to fuck things up.