Reflections

My fingertips are still bent on the edge of the cliff (04.02.23)

I came out on a balcony to smoke, temperature's right below the circly number and I was thinking what a perfect time to relax and think about the things that had been bothering me. I've noticed myself doing the same thing quite often nowadays, feels like I was made to be bothered by every single thing in this puny world.

It all started when I was only a little fledgling, slowly moving towards my elder self when unbeknownst to me something in my head said "you're going to die one day" and the thought of my existence being perished gave me one of my first goosebumps, I shrugged it off but slowly it kept creeping up on me, even though I wanted no part of it.

Over the years it became so vicious and spiteful that I had to find a way to escape it, or better yet, conceal it, which was, let's just say - not easy, so the other part in me gave up and skedaddled from the battle.

I would say I spent quite a long time being free from it but gruesome things started happening and the chain reaction sparked whatever was left from it into a fiery inferno. Been a bearer of burn marks ever since.

After what it feels like a lifetime my cerebral maturation started putting pieces of the puzzle together but it always came up short. Maybe I was never made to fulfill that mission or rather get even with it, although I found an interesting string that might explain it's biological roots, which I'll get into shortly, but I'm starting to think the needle is not even in the haystack, hence getting better acquainted with it was the only option.

Recently I started getting closer to my grandad, learning a lot of his youth stories, which are nothing short of unbelievable. Every encounter led to another amusing story and while all my friends seem to laugh and love every second of it, I dug deeper. Pops has a stash of old pictures and notes, dates, names he's not suppose to forget and book of rhymes which are guaranteed to bring a smile on your face. He's always ready to unleash that inner storyteller because he is afraid that not enough people know about them, hence the chance of him being remembered after being deceased is a little lower than he would like it to be. I feel the same way, how horrifying is it to think that all your life's work will vanish in a snap and without proper talekeepers you'll be forgotten and then you will truly die. So he started leaving bread crumbs on every route he took in the hopes of it helping his afterlife self remain alive as long as possible.

The process of socializing brings so much joy to him that I am convinced that even on his deathbed, given the audience, he will rise up and from the top of his lungs will tell a poem for all to hear, shortly after which he'll check the blood pressure, take his meds and get ready for the inevitable.

Took me a while but I understand him, to the tiniest details, I UNDERSTAND HIM! All I see in him is an older self of me, same charisma, bad seed, outcast, mentally unchained and still cherished by all the people whose love is needed in him, not the other way around. Just the scene of seeing him happy gives me hope that I will not lose to it or will make sure that it doesn't leave the battle unscaved.

The fear of dying is still existent and I dare anyone to claim different, sometimes I just stare at random objects, thinking, would it be better if I didn’t have the capacity to put my thoughts together, lace it on a big string and carry it on my back for the rest of my life. My grandma once said “live a simple life and learn to appreciate it” but those words sound nothing like someone who had it simple, so where’s the key? Better yet, what’s behind the peephole? And are they deserving the sleepless nights I spend wondering about them…

I hope you find peace with it.

Safe travels.