Do you ever feel like you don’t know where to start? A greedy, clean page awaits your stain; your fears and insecurities, egoic bravado, tidbits, silliness..your life. Ever tried to coherently and simply describe yourself? Ever wondered how someone would put the entirety of you, all those memories shared, hidden and extracted to be polished and told again, into one tidy shoebox? A memoir. A epitaph.
At times I just want it all to be tidy. To be right with the world. Happy, good looking, healthy and on top of it. Then I tear myself down. Like ripping off the party dress and smearing my lipstick, I run free and in my knickers to the end of the street, wildy.
Perhaps at some very young age, far too young to remember, we decide – make this contract with the world that this is how we will be. I’ll be the wise one, this trip. No, wait, can I be funny – you know, in an intellectual, dry way. Well, more amusing actually. But only the smart people in the room will get my joke. And I want to scan the room for the beautiful but ineffective faces wondering if the joke’s on them.
Just wondering, this idle Friday night, before it all comes apart. Another weekend of mornings slipped into slow afternoons. High heels and red wine. Clinking glasses. I want it to go fast so I can lament at how fast it flew.
