“Next time, we can talk about light.”1 Reading this in Mieko Kawakami’s book, All the Lovers in the Night unleashed something in me; an introspection, a visceral reaction. A physics teacher and a proofreader meet by chance and chat. The proofreader begins falling in love with the teacher, while questioning him about light. There’s something deeply romantic in the metaphor, or perhaps in trying to learn what is a loved one’s field of expertise. After one of their meetings, he turns around to her in a busy railway station and shouts: “Next time we can talk about light.” This dialogue struck me as exceedingly sweet, I blushed and fretted, underlined it darkly and pondered over why it’s making me gush. Something about it screamed “I love you!” and this is the way I express it. I wonder if that’s what the author intended the reader to feel. Too often do we ascribe our own meaning to things, no matter what the source is; whether it’s a book or somebody’s voice. I’ll hear what I want to hear, what suits me currently. We implicate our notions of love and affection into what we consume. When I watch a romantic movie, I imagine myself in it; what must it feel like? To be wanted that much, with such intensity?
I have the answer but in many ways I don't. I still wonder.
Actually I spend most of my time wondering. Pondering, overthinking, sometimes to the brink of destruction. Self sabotage as we say. There are two parts of my mind-one telling me that fantasies exist, and it’s my job to create them. And the other tells me to get my shit together, shut the fuck up and carry on living my life, away from the goofy nature of letting my imagination run wild. Stay far away from letting your mind wander into places unknown, it’ll only make you a deeply contemplative writer who is permanently in her own head. It’ll shut you off, stuck in your corner of the world, staring at the thought bubble that just popped up above your head that your puppet master controls.
I’ve been thinking about whether I have what it takes.
Whether all I have to say has been said. If my ‘voice’ is actually MY voice or is it just an amalgamation of everything and everybody I've ever loved, that has made me who I am? How real is it? Is it a result of all the love I've felt and here is a garbled mess I just vomited onto you? It is my bastardised version of things I imagine, in the order that I create, while balancing what it actually is.
The thoughts don’t leave me and eventually I get wholly and completely burnt out. Focusing on the most obsolete things, decluttering and then getting cluttered again. It’s the same every time.
I tend to use the phrase burn out often. I first learned it in the 11th grade, studying psychology. I found out that if you push yourself too hard, you will eventually tire, giving up without gravitas, crashing uncharacteristically. But I don't push myself, I just dislike discomfort. I’d rather be the best at whatever I do, and I will not die trying, I force myself to be the greatest. And then soon enough, I begin hating that best version of myself because even she is not enough. She’s never around the morning after, she lingers like a hazy afterthought as I eventually become second best, and then soon enough, pretty mediocre. I try to shut the imposter down, climbing up a never ending ladder of being perfect, dodging the stones pelted and putting out fires as I go along. But when does it stop? Does it ever?
I don’t find fear to be something to be conquered, no matter how much I’m told to do it. I’m not in that space anymore, I don’t want to fight and I must learn to pick my battles. I’d rather live in comfort, wanting to be safe and sound than dirty and adventurous. I’d like to run, far far away, to a magical kingdom where everything is fine and everybody is happy. I’m scared and I don’t think I can do anything about it right now.
I haven’t spoken to anyone about “light” in a long time. I talk a lot, and then forget most of what I’ve said. Still unsure of what this means. Should I remember what I’m saying? Or is it just one of the many tabs open in my brain that the person in front of me gets a full download of? What I get nowadays is heaps of advice (sometimes solicited and sometimes not), apathetic looks and wonky smiles. I don’t remember the last thing I said that was of importance. I know what was trending yesterday and what the faces on my instagram look like; which girl made me jealous, who had the best jewellery and who had the dumbest hot take. But I haven’t said anything that I’m passionate about, that makes me take a beat, pause, a second to think, to formulate what I want to say, and then to share the joy of the thought I’m thinking. Instead it’s factory rubbish being churned out every second. Perhaps that’s why this sentence struck me. To think of a good time for a change, a random meeting, a chance occurrence that results in excitement.
I live in my own head. My eyes see you but I don’t.
My emotions are running high and full of vigour nowadays. In more subliminal ways than normal, everything is psychosomatic and inert, unlike the fits of crying I’m used to. 3 years ago, I used to watch tik-toks in bed, of fathers and daughters sitting and eating lunch, doing regular things, living their lives and I would bawl like there was no tomorrow. I would tear up reading a 3 sentence poem that on a usual day I would scoff at. Crying in public was a monthly ceremony; on the bus, in the bathroom, sometimes on FaceTime. There was a period in my life where anything would set me off and there go the waterworks, no controlling it and no stopping them from flowing. These are all the magical things that come with a confusing romantic relationship and with living away from home; feeling so alien in your own body that there is no option but to attack it and then feel incredibly guilty to pounce upon the one thing that keeps you alive. I was constantly in a state of intensity, frantic and mildly insane. I was tense and anxious. That became my usual self, somebody that was supposed to be a visitor became a permanent roommate. Taking up space in my mind, rent free. I would get home and it would be just me and the visitor. I would sob looking at couples crossing the street, secure in their love for each other and the safety that brings. Watching the same romantic comedies over and over again until it settled my nerves.
Trying to run away from it was good, until it wasn’t. Until it was time to make a decision. So I left, and didn’t look back. I do look back on this decision, and I’m still a 100% sure I made the right one, even if the people around me aren’t. My emotions still have this strong a grip on me. I am quick to sulk, to beat myself up. Self flagellation is my middle name. In my corner of the world, this is fine.
As quickly as I wallow, I also spring back into action-jumping up in excitement if I read an interesting phrase, when I hear something that perks my ears up, if I see a cute boy. It ebbs and flows.
In a more recent book2 I’ve been reading, the protagonist hates himself. He calls himself ‘colourless’. He is devoid of most things, of feelings, of emotions and he often finds himself contemplating death. He reminds me of someone I knew, and someone I used to be. I seem to find commonality in fictional characters quicker than I can find in actual human beings. Off late, I’m slightly more on edge, quicker to cry and eager to play the saddest song on my playlist. Sometimes I shut off, I sit in front of people but I don’t hear anything. I wake up in anticipation of something but I’m not sure what it is, and as I patiently exit my state of slumber, I am faced with the disappointment of that imaginary something not going my way. I look at the state of my phone, sad and lonely, I reminisce the dreams I had, an ideal world I’d give anything to live in. Reality check.
It’s a lonely life to live, one where you’re constantly in your own mind. Co-star just told me that I will look back fondly on this confusing period in my life. It tells me to ugly cry and not eat my words. I’m confused. The things I think are certain, are not, everything is practically a variable, then why does it feel so ever-defining and permanent? I’m quieter than usual, or at least I’d like to be. I’d like to sulk, and pout and mope but it doesn’t go my way. I’d like to turn off my phone for days and stare at the wall. Stare into the sky, imagining clouds to be things they’re not, immerse myself into the silences with no need to break them. I want to be unseen, unheard and untouched, like a glass doll you place perfectly in your cupboard. Leave me be. No more cryptic Instagram stories, hoping one person may pick up on it; this is plain, old, ugly me, with unwashed hair and misplaced affection. Take it or leave it. A life, a routine, everything is set in stone but maybe it’s starting to fade. I’m still stuck on the puzzle. I’m not a whole person yet, I’m waiting, waiting and waiting.
Mieko Kawakami, All the Lovers in the Night, (Japan: Kodansha), p.85
Haruki Murakami, Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage, (New York: Penguin Random House)