consequences of re-engagment
Numbered one to twenty seven in honour of my twenty-seventh year and the collective's listicle fetish
Consequences of re-engagement
You acquire a second bout of chlamydia.
Too many of the things you dreamed of actually happen and you get a bit overwhelmed but it’s ok you actually can do it.
You want to help other people to re-engage but you can’t push them. Go softly. You can’t force it.
You doubt yourself.
You read a really great article about pants.
You message the ex you shouldn’t message.
He replies perfectly
You almost fall back in love and in turn out of the re-engagement at hand.
You don’t fall back. You’re falling forwards.
The ground shifts but your centre will hold.
There’s a blue butterfly on your favourite shirt, on the mug at the no-waste cafe, on your notebook, on your arm, in the sky, near the river.
Your skin glows for months and then breaks out all over the place.
You revel in unending energy and then burn out, hard. The ends of your hairs are singed before they can split; the ridged crescent moons of your fingernails smell of smoke.
You recognise that much of what you used to do you did for others and not for yourself.
You question how it is much of society so readily accepts the things handed to them.
You can’t seem to get enough sleep.
You’re brought to tears by the beauty of atmospheric pressure on bare skin.
You pay attention to the masterpiece of sunrise and sunset, especially the one that unfolded itself as you flew from London home to Melbourne:
the blue one that lightened and lightened until it bled into veins of yellow
And beneath that golden light pink grew darker and darker before violet erupted
and soon enough all was gray blue, and dark
reminding you of the colour pink and in turn of yourself, the flesh between your legs where he was just hours ago and maybe for the last time
and it pleased you to watch tiny icy stars begin to spread across the small oval window
the unpredictability of a setting sun -
how when you anticipate burnt orange you get nothing,
but expect nothing and a symphony of your beloved pastels tugging at the corners of your irises is what you receive.You read the writing on the walls — it speaks to you.
You don’t feel like you’re doing enough.
Not everyone loves you. In fact, many don’t even like you and that sucks but you remember that if you go through life without anyone disliking you then you haven’t really done so authentically. So you press on. You find space to hold the ickiness of a man walking out of your yoga class, and a friend blocking you from their life in a way you cannot comprehend.
You trust that there is poetry in the diversity of it all; choose (with difficulty) to be inspired rather than offended by those who know themselves well enough to realise you are not the right instructor or friend for them. You remember that there are many who do choose you.
You learn, frustratingly, that it is your responsibility and your responsibility alone to continue to hold yourself accountable and move yourself forward, often with very small steps, towards what you sense is out there on the horizon.
People disappoint you (just as you may disappoint them).
You act a little crazy, and rediscover the magnificence of memes.
You glimpse, for a moment, the ecstasy of no longer caring what others think of you. Then you’re overcome with caring again, but with time those moments of freedom get longer, more frequent.
You question, almost daily, whether you are in fact being stupid for believing there might be something more. But then remember that, no, it is not stupid to pursue that which lights your inner fire and leave behind the kind of living that breathes restlessness into your bones. You toy with the idea that maybe - just maybe - it is in fact society that is a little silly.
You have to keep at it, keep doing the work.
Some of the work doesn’t work out.
You realise that no one is even paying that much attention so why not just have a little fun with it?
I really do need to read the writing on the walls!