Strange feeling the end of this year coming so fast but the holidays have been so quiet. Time is this multi-textured thing which stretches and flexes this way and that, seeming motionless and velvety smooth but as hard and swift as knives it comes on just the same. Aging is becomeing more a part of who I am and it seems to be getting less terrible as it happens. I am thirty-three years old and the time when christmas lights twinkled on a tree the size of a forest of dreams is long behind me but I am still that little boy with eyes full of wonder and an endless world of possibilities waiting for me. The lessons are being learnt one at a time and the innocence is less with each year but the feeling of the innocence is still there. And as I lose family members sowly, each loss seeming utterly significant I am still aware that my own timeline is less than nothing in the vastness of creation; the infinity of time. And though the earth trembles for me and stars wheel pregnant with meaning and portents whisper on the wind I know it doesn’t matter to you. None of it. Because you live, whoever you are, in a separate universe to me and I am sole here. And that’s okay. Because I’m not alone, I’m just sole. My perspective is private and I couldn’t share it with you even if I wanted to because the world is all sealed up in my head, my world… Just like yours is.
So as the weather tilts back and forth offering warmth and cold in turn, and the end of two thousand eleven rushes up so silently, I take stock of what I am and what I have been. What I have meant to the people I’ve crossed paths with. The love and the joy and the anger and the hurt. The loyalty and the infidelity and the honesty and the concealment and the manipulation and the selflessness. And the pity. The force I have been. What have I done? What have I given in return for all that I have taken? And how the scales balance out. It’s a strange thing having to provide my own moral compass — no pole-star to guide me any longer. A lonely feeling, but a feeling of great responsibility. We are, each of us, a force for great effect, agents of change and we can be terrible or benign and often both in turns. And… You know… With great power… So we have to… We have to be conscious of ourelves of what we do and how we use the world.
It’s a terrible thing to miss people. And I do. Miss people. In my life. So what is the cost of ambition? It’s like knives gently cutting. Gliding up arms and down along ribs to slip in and cut. Choice is the cruel agent of this hurt, turning our losses onto our own heads, choice offers gain and accomplishment but always, always, always at a cost. So we harden ourselves just a little bit as the days turn into weeks and months and years. And we miss each other. And maybe we connect, but guilt and sorrow are companions to our triumphs and our joys. Because the tender young things inside us know that it’s been a long long time since we saw each other last.
New year is coming and I’m in London still, but I am thinking of those who gave me life and who raised me up. Watched Loony Toons. Looked into mirrors and flipped through books when the words were still incomprehensible wonders to me. Played in leaves and argued and learned how badly it can hurt to be turned away. I am still full of that curiosity. Still full of that wonder. That yearning. I guess we all are.