Talks With The Sky

I thought of Anabella today. And now, as I sit with the moon and the stars, clear as ever in the Scottish Highlands' sky, I cannot stop thinking at all. This is far from uncommon for me, but my thoughts present themselves differently in a setting like this. Calmer, with an enhanced profoundness, borderline romantic; the voice is steady and strong. I become intimate with myself to such a depth that I reach my subconscious. 

I am surrounded by quiet, with no possibility of being disturbed or stumbled upon. My head lies amongst dewy grass, my gaze comfortably pointed vertically. Above me is an infinite blanket of pitch black, peppered with countless stars that I have made wishes upon, prayed to, and promised to those most dear to me. If only they were mine to give. Today, I was lucky enough to see the sunset and dusk fall too. If I stay here long enough, the sunrise should bless me as well. It is the most remarkable change to witness. Millions of molecules reacting with the atmosphere, all at once, and then the sky has taken on entirely different shades and hues, and I did not really even see it happen. My heart soared as I soaked in this metamorphosis through the bus window against a foreground of tall, dark evergreen forest trees, jagged hills shrouded in low clouds, a lake that glimmered as the wind blew, farmland with a thick, curdled mist settled upon it. First, the scene took on a burnt warmth of oranges, yellows and reds, like the cinematic depictions of the Wild West I found so fascinating as a child. Much like that era, the picture before me felt out of reach, endlessly faraway. Eventually, it darkened to a bruise-like mix of purple, blue and green. Beautiful, like an abalone shell. I remember wishing that I could acquire bruises like that on my own skin. Deeply coloured, to look as sore and noticeable as possible. So that someone might express some care for me, might inquire what was wrong. Of course, I cannot share the truth of my internal suffering–I would not burden an innocent with something so disturbing–but I could make up an elaborate story, and let my pain be recognised through it vicariously. I thought up a few long-winded scenarios, placing myself in a situation to be badly beaten, or having a catastrophic accident. But I am not that narcissistic. An attention seeker, yes. I have been called that often in life. I used to resent the label, but I see it now as true, a characteristic developed from my poor, sour, neglectful upbringing; a desire I allow to be fed now with great gluttonous joy. It delights me. It invigorates me. But, alas, it is all temporary, fun make-believe. Until Anabella.

The air is freezing against my face and fingers, and I feel a chill drift through my autumnal layers. My chin rests on my forearms, which are folded over my knees as they are tucked into my chest. Anabella. There was an intimacy between us I have seldom held and found to be sustainable. It was electrifying, but if I had held on any longer our spark would have turned into a ferocious wildfire, and the people most true to me would have lost all their significance and burned as mere collateral damage. Inevitably, it would have all turned into a dangerous game, like fencers entangled in a dance of back and forth, a performance, a defeat, a win. What I found in her was so intoxicating and addictive. There it was, that feeling again, viscerally familiar. A feeling I had attempted to derive from so many between my first time and Anabella. I still yearn for it, despite having had it twice now. 

Intimacy. 

Intellectual intimacy. Emotional intimacy. 

You cannot see it. You cannot touch it. 

You need it to breathe freely.

Our minds came together and brought to light our shadows, our hidden selves, our suppressed selves, perhaps our selves at our core. If I have learnt anything from my talks with the sky, it is that all we are, if we are anything, is a culmination of our every experience; completely fluid, ever-changing, and not at all simple or ‘black and white.’ Even the person you loathe most, or find to be most hollow, is still deserving of being perceived as complex and nuanced, because it is the truth. I do not find it embarrassing to admit that all I want is to be seen, heard, understood and digested wholly, rather than settling for being broken down into parts for sale, or reimagined with someone else’s limitations. 

My surroundings are so vast. How many blades of grass grow from this field, and how far does it stretch? How deep can one go into that forest beyond, before losing their bearings and feeling hopeless? How would one see the world if they were to climb one of these hills and look down upon it from that great height? We are so insignificant amongst the immensity of all that develops and outlasts us. Our mundane lives are so short, while love, money, pain, war and nature seem to be eternal, forgetting we ever existed. I think it would be fair to say that everything is inconsequential ‘in the end.’ I will live, and I will die. That is all that is certain–someone’s Mother used to tell me that. When I would let my mind get away from me, that was supposed to be my point of return. Everything must matter so much that it consumes me, yielding me to the present, yet nothing matters at all, and I must not clutch or be clutched by what is out of my hands. Then comes the mantra I hold onto:

Nothing is above me, and I am above nothing. Nothing is beneath me, and I am beneath nothing.

It is not a matter of equality; it is a matter of not giving anything that power and significance to subject me to judgement based on the grounds of comparison. Still, my appetite, my craving for that intimacy that I was able to replicate and rediscover within Anabella, so close to how I had experienced it once before, but this time platonic and more raw, woman to woman; it leaves me feeling unsatiated every single day. Every single second of every single day. Despite my consistent efforts to rationalise my existence, I feel quite empty and unforgiving of myself for that very reason. What an ungrateful bastard I can be. 

I pull a 10p coin from my left jacket pocket to occupy my idle hands. On my aimless, sleep-deprived meander here–I do not know where I am–it caught my eye, winking at me as it reflected the weak and poorly distanced streetlamps. I had to pick it up. Admittedly, I initially walked past it, but guilt tugged me backwards, and I stooped down to pluck it from the dirt road. I could not just leave the poor thing there, all alone, unclaimed. Even worse, I could tell it knew I had noticed it. I could not be the culprit of its misery, piling onto its feelings of rejection and worthlessness. I had to take it as a companion, clear my conscience, and prove my empathy in perceiving it as meaningful. 

The ridges and etchings of heads and tails rub against my fingers as I flip the coin round and round. An opposite, a contradiction. 

Good, evil. 

Fighter, lover. 

Right, wrong. 

Winner, loser. 

Damaged, strong. 

I believe that is my central issue. I struggle to maintain a middle ground. There is a conflict within me at all times, coexisting harmoniously, as they cannot seem to exist without one another. I fear I have subjected myself to a never-ending torture. In the beginning, it was not my fault. It was a case of cause and reaction. But now that I am in control of myself, of my life, and I have a choice, more often than not, to my own detriment, I choose to let go of the reins. The ‘downward spiral’ and I are old pals, terribly well acquainted. My walk of life is to teeter along its edge. I fall into its familiar darkness, and feel liberated. The flip side of the coin is that right at its bottom–for I am not so foolish as to believe it is a bottomless pit–that is where my resilience is rooted. 

These days, to preserve my sanity, I cannot venture there as willingly or as much as I would like to. I miss the misery as fondly as one can find a way to miss their Mother–even the most inadequate ones.

And so, I continue. I cling to Anabella, and her predecessor. I take a little pleasure in my ruining, in my determination to remember, in my refusal to let go. I leech off it; bit by bit, it fuels me. 

As I await dawn’s twilight and the sun’s rising, I think I will go back to the beginning of my thoughts and see where else they can take me. 

I thought of Anabella today.