It started with a dispute between a couple over an advent calendar. Something about the type of chocolate. I wasn’t really listening.
I came to thinking that the chocolate didn’t matter.
Once the 1st window is opened their interest in the calendar will start to ebb because they already know the future. There will be no more surprises. They know in 24 days they will duly open the final window. The end might as well be the beginning.
It’s enough to make you indifferent. When time becomes monotonous it feels laden with a sense of inevitability. Sometimes I feel like there’s a long corridor in front of me and wonder what will happen if I try to change time by turning back. But you can’t. Like you’re in a video game; an invisible force stops you. The corridor is an incessant conveyor. Before the dust from a memory has had time to settle you’re drawn onward. On through an opposing door to a day, a week, a minute or a second. To a bus or car. To a footstep or to sleep.
What’s left to do but do as you’re wont?
Take interest in your cereal and your chocolate in your advent calendar.
Grasp at diversions and let yourself fall into recesses on earth or in our mind to find some sense of forgetfulness. You trace your fingers in the darkness for something tangible to hold on to. You find the lowest point and become accustomed to seeing with parochial vision. Unaware of what is imaginary or real or desperate. You catch sight of a spark and chase it in the hope it will become a flame to comfort you. You arrive elated and frightened.. but it was the same light you’ve seen before. Illuminating shadows on the creased up languid smiles of those that welcome you back. They doubted your conviction. They were right to. The door at the opposite end of the corridor will be in the same position from whence you saw it last. It will be the colour of your fears.
I write turgid words as if they will barricade my future whilst I work things out and prepare to move on; but they only embellish emptiness.
Or dream that love will take our hand and lead us. That a tall dark or small light stranger will claim us. Their otherwise morose tale becomes somehow ethereal, we absorb their adventure with interest and suspense and cling to a notion we saw in a film with desperate hope. Our eyes widen in awe as our new hero becomes the essence of our existence. You find your forgetfulness. You dance in the clouds and let yourself fall safely in their comfort. As ethereal as it is tenuous. A thread flickers above you. It binds you and you wake up as though from a coma. Where once romance allowed you to see your own blissful reflection in their eyes; now all you see is the darkness you’ve been hiding from. It was there all along.
You condemn yourself for falling into a pit of fallible hopes and dreams and try to convince yourself that your time wasn’t wasted. That your time is unique. It pains you to accept that there are a million other souls straying from the path, just like you. Trying to blind themselves.
Just. Like. You.
In 24 days the window’s on the advent calendar will all be open. You will come through unscathed.
Let the fear dissipate and lengthen your spine.
After all, the end might as well be the beginning.