I’m standing on the edge. A glorious vantage point, allowing me to absorb all that I’ve done, in this small patch of hybrid vegetation that I call my life – however, that view is temporary. The very ground my feet tread at present is ashen, cracked, spouting vicious flame through tiny pores. Dante spoke of vile insects with stings bound to chase people that stand where I stand: a horrible state of purgatory.
There’s about 3 weeks left until I leave my home, for university and a strange new world. The thought sickens and terrifies me, yet home itself is often intolerable. A slow and steady rope thickens around my neck each day, made of my own soft pink duvet cover and my mother’s castigation. Where do I go? What do I do? Perhaps the only path left is forward; face my future fears to appreciate the roots of home. Part of my reasoning is how healthy being away from my mother should be; theoretically I should grow to miss her, to a point where our bond should grow.
The ground I walk is as treacherous and fickle as a newly formed coat of ice over a lake – friendships I had made out to be a golden investment have begun to rust, my secure place in ‘the system’ sways like the air after an impulsive sneeze and my metaphors are beginning to not make any sense. It’s as if, at this point, my identity is so unstable, that the picture I’ve ultimately painted of myself is me laying on my red couch with stockings and my best baby pink BM corset playing Xbox and not really thinking about life, drinking iced water to burn calories : not profound at all. Maybe we’re not as deep as we think we are? Or maybe I’m just slipping into the void, to see what awaits me beyond the rabbit hole.
Either way, I find this stage quite upsetting. People can’t support me in the way that I need them to, because I can’t express what I need – and because I don’t really trust myself to rely on them anyway. Especially my parents. Being in this alone is a test I’m going to remember for the rest of my life, but it’s certainly not something I want my daughter to go through. I promise, she’ll get to study that BA Film & Media if she wants to, and nothing will stop me from helping her.
Turning to God is always what I’ve done, and somehow the signs I’ve received have been more muddled than my DSTV during a thunder storm. I take it as a sign to enjoy the haphazard briyani presentation and come to my own conclusions as the fragments of my life pave the way towards a sunrise.
Sometimes I look at people, just laying on the cement island next to street lights and robots on warm Summer days and I wonder what that must feel like. Ten years ago, I would carry my bright red Tigger mat outside, lay on the cement driveway and look at the clouds. What did I see up there that kept drawing me outside? I can’t quite remember, but what I do hold onto is the profound feeling of completion, where the warmth of the ground flows through my body, and my eyes behold the heavens in all their glory. In this purgatory, where everything is scattered and reforming, before breaking again – I seek completion. They say we’re ultimately born complete, we just need to reconnect with our inner selves through detachment from the circumstances of daily life.
Detachment is a beautiful, difficult and tremendous word. It often leads me to a broody silence. And the broodyness always gets my mother to ask annoying questions, perpetuating the cycle.
Looking in the mirror, I see nothing. I’m finally waking up. And the ground I walk, is hard, grey and ashen. One day, I’ll get to the end of the rainbow. Hours pass.
“Oh don’t fly fast, pilot can you help me, can you make this last? This plane is all I’ve got, so keep it steady now.”
- Jack’s Mannequin, Bruised.
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