My friend with no map.
I remember those moments. Those end-of-the-thrill, electric moments. All gone up in smoke, now. I could be staring into space, thinking about what to buy for dinner tomorrow. I could be needing to urinate. That thrill, that love, that strength of purpose, is gone.
And I don’t know if I miss it. Maybe now, this cotton-wool-filled head is better, this easy numbness, than the spikes, the highs and lows, of before. Maybe I am better off spoon-feeding myself wine and lying down a lot, dully watching dull TV and dulling everything within me. It certainly seems to cause me less anxiety. But who can tell? Maybe this is just another respite – they get longer year by year as my poor bones creak and crack and my head struggles more and more to lift itself from pillows. I’m sitting in an office at a job which pays okay and does not require much in the way of mental capacity. I make another cup of coffee and write a scene for the film. Writing is safe, right? I can still get something off my chest, without the need to feel that I’m the best (and fail) and never needing to head outside, to raise my head above the parapet, to crawl along the edge – the writing is a safer bet. From this desk, from normal life, even now I can still write. But not the other stuff. The other goals, and aims, now dampened by the passing of the years, cause me less joy and much more pain, until I reach the point of questioning and heckling and screaming at myself, I’m asking “why”?
Why put myself through that again?
My friend with no map. Panicking but sure. I hold him to my breast and breathe deeply. I hope he is not lost forever, now.