13 July 2012

Leaf drop

Dear Diary,

Life is going too fast for me to process. I’m afraid that when I look up finally, I will be old. On the one hand, it’s exhilarating, and not as stressful as when I used to wonder what it was I was meant to be doing; when all I had was handfuls of time to make the moments I’d just spent amount to something meaningful. 

I want to do some fairly meaningless things now, for rather a long time. I think that’s called ‘holiday’.

I no longer wish for time to write here. I no longer wish to write. I wish that frightened me but it doesn’t. I wish the self was as reliable as birch bark, blanching in the sun but always shedding layers to expose fresh familiarity.

When I was small, I used to lie beneath the neighbours’ birch tree in summer. The neighbours are long gone and the tree was cut down and I moved away, but I remember how its leaves stirred the air above my face. That moment is happening forever inside me, like all of them. I have to believe that this is still enough to constitute a self; that this is more birch than air.


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