Roald Dahl was the champion of the world, I was nobody

You know, I'm not frightened. It's just that I will miss you all so much. 
    ~ Roald Dahl to his daughter Ophelia on his deathbed

I don't know what I want my last words to be
I've thought about it sometimes
Trying to think what I might say when I have one last opportunity to say anything ever again
I would want it to be important
No, not important
I would want it to be reflective though
I would want to distil the essence of a lifetime, my lifetime, into a single thought or expression
A sentence that starts with the innocence of my youth, and goes on to express the pain and torment and joy and wonder of a lifetime
And ends with a calm acceptance
A sentence that conveys the love I have for those who have had a profound effect on me
And even for those who hurt and damaged me
For they too have helped mould who I am.

I just pray, more than anything else, my last words aren't 'Ow, fuck'.
And yet, those two words would describe my life more than anything else.

Remembered Day

I still remember the way your smile showed both your top and bottom teeth. How you'd squint as you laughed, little lines forming around your eyes. How the silver grey in your eyes glinted a little, even though there was so little light. As if they shone on their own, from deep inside. 

I've never expected to meet someone at a bar that I'd form any kind of connection with. Never a friend, definitely not a woman. I always kind of thought of bars as just facilities to go to with friends. A place where people anonymously mingle, and part ways at the end of the night, back to their own lives apart from each other. 

The bar was a dingy one. I remember the little light they had seemed to be swallowed up by the black floors and tables and walls, everything to hide the wide variety of stains built up over the years. My shoes stuck to the ground with each step, each threatening to suck my shoe right off my foot. The clientele seemed equally slightly dingy: skin a little too sunburned, arms a little too tattooed, hair a little too greasy. 

I don't think others would label me introverted, but it's how I see myself. I don't normally approach strangers, definitely not women as attractive as you were. My friend being highly interested in yours helped I guess. 

I remember being just slightly buzzed, enough that I was relaxed. Slow enough that I felt the attraction before any kind of gripping anxiety or fear could take hold. Just enough that I could be just me, and talk to just you. We spoke like friends of twenty years. You laughed at my shitty jokes and touched my arm. I held your hand as we spoke about our fears. The music pounded away, I could feel the stickiness of a thousand spilled drinks on the couch gluing itself to my pants, but still we spoke, right into each others ears to be heard. 

And as we stood outside, you asked me something. Something that suddenly brought reality crashing down on top of me. I felt like I had been hit by a train. You asked if I wanted to walk you home. For some reason up until that point, this had been a chance encounter, a moment of fleeting serendipity. Something that would end as the final song played, and we would go back to our own lives. But you had felt it. Like I had felt it. This was something a little more than that. You put your hand in mine, not waiting for a response, and turned to take me with you, turning to a street that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me. Stretch into a future that seemed a little brighter than the night itself. 

It was the middle of summer, but it felt like the dead of winter. That odd quiet after a fresh snowfall, as if the whole city is under the blankets and asleep, or speaking in whispers. Nothing could touch me. Or you. 

And with a single screech that all shattered. As your friend swooped in, and saved you from me. You had to go home together, you both had an early morning the next day, she didn't have space in her car for another person. The reasons rattled on and on, but it was already over. You were gone. 

I'd be lying if I said not a day goes by that I don't think about you. I don't think about you. Years have gone by since that night. I've gone months without thinking about you at a time. 

I don't know what I hope to accomplish by writing all this. Maybe some closure? Maybe. I doubt you'll ever find this. So much time and space has passed since then, us meeting in a city I don't live in. Not knowing if you've moved away. So much could have happened since then. So much HAS happened since then. 

That night was like any other, and yet...
yet still...
I am waiting for another like that to come again. 
Waiting for your intoxicating laughter
Waiting for your smile, with the tops and bottom teeth all showing.

The highway is my treadmill

The next time you're on the highway, late at night, when there's only a few cars around, try to do this. Match the speed of those cars around you, so that you're all sort of driving in formation. Then, retreat into your mind a little, and squint your eyes a little, so that the dotted lines on the ground blur into a line. And the buildings along the side and in front fade from view. And all you are are three cars on the road, standing perfectly still together, as the world rushes past. I like to think that if you can do that, trick you're mind into thinking you're actually completely still and the world is what's moving beneath you, you'll share a moment with those other drivers. In their cars they will feel a connection with you they have never felt with anyone else. And then you will all go your separate ways again.

Are you even listening?

Forget what might happen
Forget your fears and doubts
Forget about your dreams and desires
Forget about the plans and contingincies
Just see this for what it is
Right now
We already have it all
And we'll never have more than now
And we'll never want less
But we have to get by
Just see this for what it is
And not for what it might be

Big E Little e

Have you ever stopped to think your other half is out there
That they're maybe halfway across the planet
Just waiting for you to show up

Have you ever stopped to think your other half is out there
And it's not the person you're with

Driving back from Waterloo

We used to drive all the time at night. I remember it would always be dark out, and I would open my window all the way, take my seatbelt off, and sit up on my knees, my cheek pressed to the bottom of the window sill in the door. Eyes shut tight as the wind whipped through my hair, and the orange of the street lights would light up the darkness under my lids every few seconds.

With my head sideways, I would pretend I was in a convertible, and then in a rocket ship as we passed between orange stars. I would pretend the songs on the radio were the aliens singing greetings to us as we passed by, sing songy voices in foreign languages I didn't know but sounded so familiar.

I would sometimes scare myself with visions of what those aliens might look like, and I would open my eyes, and see my dad in the drivers seat beside me. My mother in the back seat. She with her eyes closed and asleep. He looking ahead. I don't remember ever looking out in front of the car myself. I remember looking out each side, trying to look up at the moon, looking backwards at all the cars chasing after us as we won the race. I don't remember ever looking forward at where we were going.

I remember just as we got home, I would always sit back down on my seat as we turned the corner to our house. And I would shut my eyes real tight and pretend to be asleep. And my parents would sit for a moment in the car, having some grown up conversation, before getting up and out. And my dad would come to my side and open my door, asking my mom if I was asleep, and I would reply, with eyes still closed and voice bright without a trace of sleep in it "I'm not asleep, I'm only pretending!" and we would all laugh. Every night. I would be so pleased with how clever I was.

These days I'm always the driver. It's what I prefer. I prefer being the person in charge of the destination, the reason my friends and family get to and from places dry and safe. But more than that, for some reason, I like the idea that, late at night as I drive, my friends fall asleep in the passenger seats, and maybe they're really wide awake and dreaming of chasing the stars in spaceships too.

Wearing costumes

I'm tired of following you around
I can't stand the crowds of people always around you
I've had enough of the endless nights in endless bars after endless drinks
I'm done with the fake laughter with fake friends and fake problems
I'm repulsed at the mess you are every morning after
I want to step outside all this
And I want you to see it for what it is
And stand outside with me
And become real people