A thousand soul-crushing deaths. A thousand hopeful re-births, spluttering, fluttering of wings, tentative first steps back into the cruel world.
To the naive, the brave, the wise say,
do not go gentle into that good night.
rage, rage against the dying light.
....................................
Dec 04, 2014
There is poetry my soul sings I cannot hear.
Days when it blazes in vivid reds and yellows,
and days when it sputters and chokes, and barely makes a sound.
..................................
Gypsy.
(reflections on diaspora)
I know a lot of people find my lifestyle rather... intriguing. The constant shuffle, the up-and-go, the ability to constantly experience the New; except perhaps that its a misnomer, its not an ability or a talent, more circumstantial . However the grass is always greener when your toes are safely tapering the other side. The instability has lead to this feeling of acute restlessness in-bred in me now; the thought that at anytime things get 'too much' I can run to a New place and build up everything from scratch again: new image, new social circle, new interests, new preferences, new hobbies, new who-I-am's.... a completely re-vamped lifestyle.
It's not half as exciting as it sounds.
More like a disease of sorts, if I could name it such; The build-up, the frustration, the final decision before the escape, the excitement, the anticipation, the hope this-time-things-will-be-different, the meticulous planning of the various components I will choose to include in the self.....and the subsequent failure. The depression. The laments. The mourning. And then the whole wretched cycle over again. Incurable.
It is not always a wonderland. The death of something you so preciously created, destruction of a work-of-art can be devastating,specially if its self-inflicted. They say there is method in the madness, and perhaps that is cliche but only too relevant and true in this case; or perhaps once was true... I am increasingly at a loss for defining what that method could possibly be? The opportunity for re-creation? Re-birth? What if you mess up over and over again?
Maybe life, and God, and fate and all those other mystical things are offering me a chance to re-write this story to perfection, except the kindness is anything but. At best a trial, which satisfies no one and least of all, me.
And of course, when you have an option to escape, your tolerance for what 'too much' is becomes increasingly small. Add to that the fact that I have been extraordinarily blessed with parents who engage in my sensitivities, and cater to my whimsical 'I-need-to-get-away's, this life is becoming a habit. A very bad habit; like a cigarette that will slowly murder me with the pleasure of evasion it offers.
I am not naive enough to not see the side-effects, but sadly cannot give this life up and settle. The unrest is deeply ingrained in me almost like DNA, and I fear it will become the hallmark of our family; my ancestors...and then my children. At nights, it wakes me up staring blankly outside at the open road, my skin can hear its call. Then the jitters, the desire to up and run, or float, or to constantly move, between Here and Here and Here. The markedly few hours of sleep I do get are poignantly woven with dreams of all the places I've lived, the people I've been, and always, always the constant chase of finding a one true Home.
It is an unfortunate realization that the dreaded/anticipated cycle will continue as long as a satisfactory Perfection continues to elude my fingertips... It entices me in kaleidoscopic dreams alone, until which time I wander hoping that somehow somewhere everyone and everything will finally click together and fulfill the restless tingling in each cell in my blood. Eventual, not defeat per se... perhaps relief.
Idealistic hopes. Perfection itself is as elusive a concept as stability in my life, and in my case at least, one cannot exist without the other.
But it will happen someday, the settling down, for more or less...or so I console myself. The much-awaited arrival of Toronto suns have yet to burn away this heart, yet to make it yearn the need to heal...elsewhere. I will not fool myself that this is my final destination; not by any means...But I hope I can fool myself long enough; enough to surrender for just this little bit.
Enough for now.
I know a lot of people find my lifestyle rather... intriguing. The constant shuffle, the up-and-go, the ability to constantly experience the New; except perhaps that its a misnomer, its not an ability or a talent, more circumstantial . However the grass is always greener when your toes are safely tapering the other side. The instability has lead to this feeling of acute restlessness in-bred in me now; the thought that at anytime things get 'too much' I can run to a New place and build up everything from scratch again: new image, new social circle, new interests, new preferences, new hobbies, new who-I-am's.... a completely re-vamped lifestyle.
It's not half as exciting as it sounds.
More like a disease of sorts, if I could name it such; The build-up, the frustration, the final decision before the escape, the excitement, the anticipation, the hope this-time-things-will-be-different, the meticulous planning of the various components I will choose to include in the self.....and the subsequent failure. The depression. The laments. The mourning. And then the whole wretched cycle over again. Incurable.
It is not always a wonderland. The death of something you so preciously created, destruction of a work-of-art can be devastating,specially if its self-inflicted. They say there is method in the madness, and perhaps that is cliche but only too relevant and true in this case; or perhaps once was true... I am increasingly at a loss for defining what that method could possibly be? The opportunity for re-creation? Re-birth? What if you mess up over and over again?
Maybe life, and God, and fate and all those other mystical things are offering me a chance to re-write this story to perfection, except the kindness is anything but. At best a trial, which satisfies no one and least of all, me.
And of course, when you have an option to escape, your tolerance for what 'too much' is becomes increasingly small. Add to that the fact that I have been extraordinarily blessed with parents who engage in my sensitivities, and cater to my whimsical 'I-need-to-get-away's, this life is becoming a habit. A very bad habit; like a cigarette that will slowly murder me with the pleasure of evasion it offers.
I am not naive enough to not see the side-effects, but sadly cannot give this life up and settle. The unrest is deeply ingrained in me almost like DNA, and I fear it will become the hallmark of our family; my ancestors...and then my children. At nights, it wakes me up staring blankly outside at the open road, my skin can hear its call. Then the jitters, the desire to up and run, or float, or to constantly move, between Here and Here and Here. The markedly few hours of sleep I do get are poignantly woven with dreams of all the places I've lived, the people I've been, and always, always the constant chase of finding a one true Home.
It is an unfortunate realization that the dreaded/anticipated cycle will continue as long as a satisfactory Perfection continues to elude my fingertips... It entices me in kaleidoscopic dreams alone, until which time I wander hoping that somehow somewhere everyone and everything will finally click together and fulfill the restless tingling in each cell in my blood. Eventual, not defeat per se... perhaps relief.
Idealistic hopes. Perfection itself is as elusive a concept as stability in my life, and in my case at least, one cannot exist without the other.
But it will happen someday, the settling down, for more or less...or so I console myself. The much-awaited arrival of Toronto suns have yet to burn away this heart, yet to make it yearn the need to heal...elsewhere. I will not fool myself that this is my final destination; not by any means...But I hope I can fool myself long enough; enough to surrender for just this little bit.
Enough for now.
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