Recently I lost a friend but that isn’t the focus of this post. (I hope one day it is something I am able to write about but as of now the reality is too raw to begin to find words for.)
I want to write about the way the world stops. Everything you believed right up until that moment isn’t important anymore. It’s like someone turned all the lights off and you’re just fumbling around in the dark trying to make sense of your surroundings. You know what’s there, it’s your room after all, but nothing is where it should be. Nothing seems right.
And, when you finally locate the light switch, you turn it on to find nothing is different but everything has changed.
That’s how I feel in this moment. My life is still the mess it was before the lights went out but nothing is the same. I don’t know what to do with myself, choices are too difficult to make, all I know is the yearning to write.
For me, writing makes life survivable, even in the worst of times. It’s the life-raft I cling to when I’m barely staying afloat. All I want, all any of us writers want, is to turn that life-raft into a fully-fledged boat. Perhaps with a few paddles, a motor if we’re lucky, and one day maybe it will become an entire yacht with living quarters and an observation deck. A silly thing to hope for, unlikely to ever come true, but a hope none the less. In moments like these, hope is all you can really ask for.
I guess what I’m trying to say, amongst the pointless metaphors, is that I’ve realised my own mortality. I may be young, but that doesn’t mean I have a full life ahead of me. Sometimes, for no real reason at all, life just ends. And, despite the insanity of it, despite the financial strain and the unlikelihood of success, I intend to spend every moment clinging to the life-raft that writing brings. One day, perhaps it’ll do more than just float.