As I mentioned in my previous post, I celebrate my half birthday every year to make up for my actual one which rarely fails to deceive my low expectations. Besides, twelve months is just too long a wait!
I was born mid August, mid summer, a leo supposed to celebrate in warm sunny weather; however, every year precisely on my birthday, wherever I am at that moment, it rains, and I have checked, it only rains where I am. Usually in France in the countryside during that period, I have celebrated twice in Paris and once in Lebanon and believe me when I say it has rained in the exact region I was in when candles were lit, every single year since my 5th. If I recall correctly, my parents had prepared a surprise celebration on that day and upon my return home from my summer day camp, I found a kiddy pool in the garden and little presents on every step leading to my room, bathing suit and accessories spread out on my bed upstairs. I got dressed and came down excited and giddy only to find the garden submerged in water from a sudden summer storm. It may have been the saddest sight I ever beheld as a child. Ever since, I have always celebrated carefully, preparing myself for things that often ended up happening, whether friends getting ill at the last minute to the ice skating rink being closed just on that day to being stuck at work on a Monday with colleagues I had to force a smile for.
Today is my half birthday, and from the looks of it half way in, it’s apparently a year-long curse I suffer from. Cheers!
When I started this blog, the idea was to write down on my phone whatever came to mind, be it a fait divers, a rant or a haiku. So, staying true to that, here are the perplexing thoughts running through my mind at the moment and snippets of the events triggering their oh-so-annoying appearance.
As I mentioned in a previous post, my father’s older cousin passed away on the day after Christmas, alone in his house, his body found by the police and left there to decay while they searched for living relatives of the deceased. Well, they found us, and we had to run all over the place on new year’s eve to ensure he was properly buried and his papers were in order. The first part done, we were asked to go back into his house perfumed with five days’ worth of rotting flesh, rummage through his private belongings as I repressed heavy tears from flowing all over the place at the thought of how terribly lonely it must have been to die alone. He wasn’t only family, he was human, a feeling being who left unopened boxes filled with Christmas decorations in his living room, papers strewn on all chairs and tables as he endeavoured to finish his affairs while death crept closer and closer. I repressed my tears long enough to get back home where, nothing restraining the flow anymore, I wept. These events coupled with my uncertain state of mind every time my future is mentioned inevitably caused my body to react and… hello heartburn. After years of struggling with it, how it appears out of the blue or during stressful moments, I still don’t know how to deal with the monster. On a strict diet of rice, boiled carrots and camomile tea, needless to say the kitchen seems to be laughing at my dismay, the internet taunting me with “don’t eat this” and “don’t do that” instead of offering me the one thing I desperately seek: “eat this”, a “this” that doesn’t taste bland or makes me want to sing about dishes of yore, dreaming of my hot cup of nothing.
There is no point to this post other than to relieve some of the tension acquired from opening the fridge and closing it in vain, this time knowing it isn’t devoid of tasty snacks and dishes as it can so often seem, but stacked with forbidden treats by my too sensitive stomach and upset nerves. 2017, it’s been only a week, take it easy on me, will you?
There are billions of souls walking the Earth today; billions smiling, laughing, living. Well I’ve got a sectet for you: it’s all make-believe.
Maybe nobody thought of it, maybe no one wanted to, but if someone created some sort of thermometer that measured how much of us is truly alive, the percentage would astound us. They say our heartbeat determines if we’re still here, enjoying each day as we breathe in life’s elixir, but my biology teachers would’ve probably failed psychology class. We walk, footsteps and pulse in synch, breathing automatically, slowly dying inside, minute after minute, skipping seconds, waiting for it all to end and relieve us. We paint smiles on our faces every morning, fooling the neighbours and our mirrors, lying to get through another day of pretending to be alive and well, a mask for our loved ones, a mask for ourselves. I woke up to this world crying, and I haven’t stopped since. I detest the idea of a place where money, scheming, cheating, killing – and any other horrid concept humans have sickened their souls with – come before love, integrity or self-fulfillment. I abhor watching initially good people slowly become rotten because they found no other way to get through the day. I hate that I cannot hate but only wallow and sigh as rain pours down from a fake sunny sky, and that I am doomed to watch everything happen helpless. I don’t like it here, I never have; I’ve been smiling and laughing and singing life’s beauty while all I’ve seen in my wake and in my dreams, is its putrefaction; the empty satisfaction one gets from a useless career, the shallow joy caused by vacant conversations… there is no depth in our lives, no truth in our lies, no real reason for our smiles; they just got stuck on our faces after patiently, repetitively, hypocritically painting them on one time too many.
You could say this is the most obscure post I’ve ever published, it may even seem too grim compared to the rest, but our hearts sometimes beat more slowly, wishing they didn’t beat at all, and our souls grow much too old to hope for eternity. Let us cry tonight, for tomorrow we smile again.