8 November 2013
I think I have pieces of my heart scattered everywhere. I think some of them might not even be in the same time, in the same universe.
Have you ever wondered about that—about this being not just your one life? That perhaps there are many of you out there, lost souls maybe, or simply versions of yourself, unaware of a greater force at work?
Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known, said Carl Sagan, born today.
“To truly go back where we came from, I would have to be dismembered and divided among many lands, and my heart, I was sure, should be buried in the California hills.”
– Rebecca Solnit, from A Book of Migrations
What does it mean–to be buried? I realise that there can be several interpretations.
Here: It is a place where one comes home, after a long journey. Life, I mean. And to have a space, a resting place, to have a small curve on land, a cradle, something to envelop oneself once everything is at an end, and there is nowhere else to go.
Here: It is to cover from sight, to forget, to embed deeply and profoundly–and to leave it there. It is forgetting, it is dismissing.
Here: It is to enclose, to embrace, to enfold and include in the turning of time, seasons.
I don’t know where my heart should be buried. I feel I haven’t traveled enough as it is, I haven’t experienced enough, haven’t felt enough, haven’t lived enough.
So this question alienates me, in some way. I’m just…so hungry for a lot of things.
Perhaps the trick is to unbury the heart instead of burying it.
I mean–I think I have been in the ground myself, for far too long, safe in an entombment of my own making. Venturing out, once in a while, to wrestle with my personal demons. Coming back to rest if defeated, crying myself to exhaustion, waiting until I can be well again to fight.
Perhaps the thing to do is not to vanquish the demons, but to learn how to live with them side by side.
I realise that making them disappear is next to impossible. That the quest to wanting them gone might take a long time. That I might lose myself in the process. So maybe I have to fight better, smarter. I have to adapt, I have to learn how to function, to run, while my demons run with me, by my side. If I learn how to adjust and acknowledge their presence, then I may have a fighting chance.
A fighting chance. Perhaps that’s all I need.
Sometimes I feel like I talk too much, write too much, bare too much, that perhaps it is indeed better, (more?) right to keep it all hidden. It’s like I couldn’t keep my (metaphorical) mouth shut. Dumping all of this on one go, no control, absolutely no control. There are times when I would be appalled the next day, having opened my mouth like that, having bared myself like that, and I will spend the rest of my hours waiting for punishment. Waiting to be excoriated, waiting for someone to leave me, because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, because I couldn’t control myself.
Then some days I would talk all the more, as if rebelling, as if saying, fuck this, you couldn’t hurt me more than you already have, and I am just daring, daring to talk and talk and talk and write and write and write until there is nothing more to say. And perhaps I keep on talking so I wouldn’t have to stop, so I wouldn’t get to the end, where I would get to meet with the reality (the realisation?) that everyone has left, because I’ve said too much, have been too much. And then, exhausted and exhilarated, I would look around to see who has stayed. And I don’t know what to do afterward, upon seeing that some people did stay. Because what–I was expecting to be alone after this? For perhaps that is how I think of myself.
Times like this, I feel exposed. Like a live nerve. Like an open wound.
I think I will never be able to get all of them back. All of my heart, I mean. I also think that for each time I chance upon a piece, I am also giving another away. So it will never really be complete.
Perhaps in the end, there is nothing to bury.