Few scuff marks, one careless owner
Forced to make a sleek sideways move again, this time though thoroughly enjoying the semi-cloak of invisibility offered by a new determination to no longer expose my inner workings such as they may be, to all and sundry whether they like to be privy to all that melancholy madness or not. Or as I put it to a friend, ‘a fox cannot survive if he keeps broadcasting his every move.’
How refreshing to have all that misery and mental squalor all to my myself. Seriously, there is something so liberating about no longer caring one jot about FB, emails. SMS, smoke signals, morse code.
Although, I must admit now again seeing some little meaningful omens leading me to believe I was led back here. And so it seems as though La MacKillop still has some designs on me .. this funny little enclave, this stand-out outstanding sanctuary filled to the brim with those things that can truly warm the cockles of an inveterate Papist’s heart.
A quiet life is the order of the day, preferably one where I no longer feel compelled to keep talking, explaining and reaching out. I may yet take a voluntary vow of silence.
Following a quiet little interlude on this lovely terrace, during which I plumbed the depths of a couple of new circles of Hell I hadn’t yet been given the keys to previously, I ended up wandering the night time streets of my beloved city for hours on end. Whether it was essential, I can’t be sure. It was pretty existential though, does that count?
However, even here an unexpected silver lining appeared just as I was growing despondent to the point of utter despair. How horrifically ironic and paradoxically cruel that while I have no shortage of female friends all across the world, some of whom quite aware of my uphill struggle in certain sensitive areas, with the best will in the world all these wonderful confidantes could ever offer – obviously – is empathy and understanding.
And while I walked around that fateful intersection near Town Hall and Pitt St. it dawned on me that now so clearly I knew that I always had been, am and will ever be singular, special, out of kilter, weird, mad, whatever… alone.
But now, for the first time that realisation no longer attached itself to the familiar forlorn feelings of morose self-pity, deep depression or sadness. Now I know in the core of my being, well let’s no longer pretend. I am free. Free to live my own bizarre life the best way I feel I can muster at this stage.
Still, it could be worse. It could be raining.