Living together, after the lonely

The older I become, I realise that a visit differs greatly from living with someone. There is that longing that one has when they visit. You have been craving their conversation and you want to hear the ring in their laughter. You share for hours on end, re-living moments that felt significant in your life. You exchange stories. Some are pleasant causing you throw your heads back in laughter, pour out showers of tears and shake your heads, all out of joy. Some are sad, leaving you heavy in spirit while watching the warrior in front of you shed their armour and expose their vulnerability. These are rare. They are made beautiful by the fact that time ticks against you. Even though you run together, it outruns both of you and it is time to say goodbye again.

Living together is a little less sparkly. It can be mundane. It is safe conversation exchanged over the day’s trivial events. It’s a run-down of the day, a summary of the to-do list presented orally. Sadly, the ever present thought that tomorrow you wake to face the same predicament is not nearly as assuring as it disappointing. There are no surprises, it’s an everyday life. We switch roles and play parts.

I have known a loneliness so thick, that when I finally learnt to keep my own company it became sweet solitude. I now have to learn to accept other people’s company. The desire to shut out is often so strong but here I am, role playing. Could it be that I am in love with myself and my own thoughts? See company can be a disruptive innovation. It’s good for you eventually, after it almost wrecks what you’ve always known.

I am to learn to open up again, to trust people with my feelings and thoughts. Maybe even invite them over. Visiting is easy. It is as simple as closing the front door to many parts of myself, leaving my house for a while, showing you my best and then coming home to myself.

Living with someone requires moving my whole self so I could perhaps share my space. It requires me to constantly put my thoughts away. It’s not out of fear but they compete for space. I can only be consumed by another in bits at a time.

But something has to give because living in companionship is beautiful. I have lived in many people, got spewed, I was homeless and eventually made a home in myself. Maybe we should call it an extended visit. You and I living together, I might bring some of my stuff over, and you will bring yours and we will make a house. I will leave my front door open but might still keep my security gate. Maybe then you will see my face, the way it is painted in my thoughts. You might like it, I had to learn to. Maybe then we will review your itinerary and I will return to myself to cuddle my thoughts. We will be happy.

Living together may just be better than a visit. 

Poet’s presence

His presence was mostly awkward. He seemed timid. His scruffy look indicated he was a man of the book. Too tall for his humble presence, he did not seem like much.

He stepped onto the spotlight and his voice did not boom when his lips parted before the mic. His voice so mellow I feared I would quickly lose interest. It did not hold the room until I heard the poem slip out of him like thick smoke seeping through a smoker’s lips. His words were potent.

Drawn to the description of the woman who held his affections I wanted to be that woman. One who had occupied his mind long enough for him to make her home to his words. The words were something of a playful banter of the childish ways of boys. He admired her but judged her, I could tell the girl had fascinated him but not enough for him to call her his.

He drew her out with similes only to quickly catch her again with witty metaphors. And soon it was over. The tease had tantalised the crowd. He left us hanging. He did not speak a word again of poetry which left me wondering how much of it was left in him.

I wondered each time I saw him how many words had he strung together. All of a sudden I longed to be immortalised by another like the many men who would stay alive in the pages of my diary long after my affections for them had died. Here was a total stranger demanding my attention and I have no choice but to draw him:

He walked into the room, unshaven and unassuming. He did not falter under the intimidation of the many men who spoke big words and replicated ideas. He was not possessive of his space but kept it without the burden of possession. So we waited to be led by what seemed so mild.

“Tell me why you write?”  The best question I had ever been asked and I knew I was in the right space. The excitement was quickly thwarted by the sad realisation that I was surrounded by completed strangers. My reply was meek and what I had believed to be a passion, would be perceived as a hobby.

I wanted him to ask me why I wrote and I would say because of you. I would say because of people. I would say that question was better than the any question I had ever heard because it would require me to use the very words that I love.

I wanted to deliver my answer to only his ears so maybe he would cradle my answer and look to me with the admiration of a new father. It would be like I had birthed in him something he had dreamt off but didn’t know could be realised.

My words fell flat and felt still born when delivered. Those eyes never shone in reverence but only acknowledged my attempt at explaining my love. I, slightly disappointed took to basking in other stories which were all so different with the same chord running through each of them. We came to write so we could escape. It was a fortress, a parallel universe where we could have our souls exposed without the pain of dodging the spears of judgement.  

Some clapped, while some were swallowed whole by the spotlight but we had all achieved a kind of liberation that we could have only find on that stage. In that week I had revealed more of myself than I had in a long time. Pity the poet’s presence whom I had loved to be in did not realise this. I am glad of it. Maybe I would not have flown so high when I was showered with those bright lights.