There are moments when a kind of clarity comes.
Like you can see through dense fog to another perspective that you’d chosen to ignore in order to continue living with the various illusions that make life, particularly life with other people, possible.
They come in an unscheduled afternoon in which nothing happens but the slightest shift in perceptiveness.
I find now that when I wish to write, not only am I unable to muster the necessary concentration, but when I reread I find them to be superfluous words lacking authenticity, with no compelling reason behind them. I see frustration and a cajoling for inner change that seems shallow, because no change has been seen or felt. Void of energy, toppling nothing, shouting nothing. A mountain of words to obfuscate a poverty of spirit.
This afternoon I visited Jelita centre after years of passing it by, and bought a card game I recently felt some fondness for. I’m given to voluntarily playing card games; I think I’m getting the hang of doing poorly and not letting it matter. These are lessons children learn that I learn in 2018. (But what does it matter as long as it is well learnt?) I feel that the days are too short, and that I must play a game or two with the people I love, as I observe the sudden vulnerability of the human situation and the incomparable loneliness of chronic pain residing in this house.
I bought strawberries and an oblong melon this afternoon, the latter was too heavy for me to hold in hand on the bus ride. In what felt like slow motion, the bus jerked forward, and the large melon rolled exuberantly down the entire length of the bus, and to my dismay. I wonder why it was embarrassment that I felt, when it was the lamest thing that happened all week.
These are the illusions of things when in unguarded moments, remind me that life is rich with the laughter I don’t laugh. That there is a real asymmetry buried below things, things utterly beside the point, totally irrelevant.
Last evening, I enjoyed dinner at Craftsmen Specialty Coffee. I didn’t (and don’t) drink coffee, but the cafe was comfortable, with vibrant pictures with high-spirited strokes worth studying for the ten minutes it took to prepare the brioche. Out of habit, I slowed to consider whether the unrelenting heart wanted waffles, and was surprised to find that it didn’t. I must be a recovering waffles-addict, I feel. Self-control, this is the sort of thing that is up my alley. But I enjoyed dessert in the Chip Bee enclave, in the failing light of Friday, when the roads grow a few decibels more quiet, and the peals of laughter or collective groans from the World Cup watchers are a distance away.
My life runs like clockwork now. On occasions when I forget they do, when the day is not divided into smaller and smaller parts that I try to fit altogether, I remember not to feel uneasy about a life that is organised around protecting the ordinary.