Wake, sleep, wake, write

Who is he, this man who has appeared at the periphery of my consciousness, who arrived in the short, almost undefinable period between wakefulness and sleep?

I am sure that I know him, and yet he looks like no one, and reminds me of nobody in particular.

He comes speaking words I do not understand, that steadfastly refuse to form into sentences; I can neither hear him nor read his lips, and yet somehow I know that I am meant to listen and watch intently.

He talks incessantly, constantly, a non-stop torrent, and yet says nothing of any meaning, reciting empty, silent sentences as his full lips move like those of a fish only slightly out of water; the indecipherable shapes and sounds mean nothing to my mind as it drifts in and around that space between conscious and not.

He takes me to a place I recognise from somewhere in the depths of my memory, yet it is somewhere I can not place in either the past or the present or the possible future. I wrack my slumbering mind to decipher a meaning, to find a link, to pick out some defining feature that will give me an answer, and I soon realise that I cannot and that the point is not to try.

He leads, he cajoles, he encourages, his metaphorical hand placed weightlessly in the space between my shoulder-blades, calming, placating, it’s all right, it’s fine to just explore this small, shallow lake.

The leaves of the overhanging trees that surround this place dip into the water like that first tentative step into a suddenly warmer sea as spring arrives, or lazy fingers that gently swill water around a bowl to make patterns for no discernable reason. A moss-covered, weather-beaten ramp leads me to the water’s edge, and I do not know if I am supposed to follow its invitation or stay right here where I am.

The place I know competes with the one that I do not.

But there, while dark and shrouded in something, looks just as peaceful, and I find that although unwilling, I am not as scared as I should be – or could be.

His frustration is tangible, and then he is gone; pushed away by another, speaking more indecipherables and this time, showing me nothing.

I am faintly aware that by allowing him to leave, to be forced away, I am condemning him to a non-existence. The guilt now a stabbing sensation where the soothing hand once was, I wonder: when he drifts away, where will he go?

Will he fly from my conscience like an angel, or sink like a stone through the water, into which I am too afraid to dip my toe?

Heart-shaped box

This is why I lock myself away here, in this imaginary room, away from risk and hurt and life and taking chances.

This is why my curtains are drawn tight shut, so nobody can peek through the window that leads to my soul and steal it away, for once a part is taken, it can never be returned.

This is why I do not give my heart to people, or allow one to be given to me in return.

This?

This.

This feeling, this uncontrolled intoxication, this rush of something I can neither identify nor understand; raw and unchartered, a jagged cliff face exposed to harsh coastal winds and eroded by the waves that crash over me.

Please, take this heart-shaped box of mine and lock it away again, for you and I both know that it does not belong here; it has seen enough daylight in the space of this one short week to discolour, to singe the edges, enough dazzling rays to pass straight through the angled magnifying glass and scorch its delicate paper covering clean away.

Take the key from my burned fingers and throw it in this fast-flowing torrent; watch it float away on these streaming rivulets and believe me when I tell you that this is why I do not love.

Drive

The trick is not to think about what it is you’re about to do. Planning is just another excuse to talk yourself out of it.

Just pull on your anchoring boots and go. Spend enough time lacing them up to feel they are only just secured. Grab your keys, grab your phone, slam the door, and stand in the cool night rain, because it’s fresh, and cleansing, and there.

Get in the car, turn the key, drive, and be glad you didn’t sell it when you thought it looked faintly ridiculous. Remember not to hit the brakes too much; the duff bulb will earn you a pull, and while the fine for the expired road tax would be a small price to pay, you don’t need anything to stop the momentum.

Not now. Not when you’ve only just got going.

Short shift, because it’s fun, and exhilarating, and feels like the power you don’t have. Tune to Kiss and turn it up, not because it’s any good, but because the tempo matches your pulse and reminds you what alive feels like.

Drive, drive, drive.

Put your foot down, flat to the floor, and go. Somewhere, nowhere, anywhere that isn’t here. Revel in how good it feels; if the rain wasn’t lashing, you’d have the roof down and the wind in your hair by now. Turn on the blowers and pretend you have anyway – this is adrenaline that’s meant to be there.

Shift up, shift down, work the timing, work your muscles, feel a part of the machine, feel you have a purpose. Take the racing line around the bend. Go on, you know you want to. You’re perfectly capable – you were taught well enough. It isn’t that tight, the road ahead is clear, and the exit is more important than the entrance anyway.

Remember that when exiting a corner, you don’t put your foot on the gas until you’re sure you never have to take it off again.

~

The only checkered flag is the one in your head. There’s nobody to see you cross it, nobody to cheer and no champagne, but the victory is just as great, and just as you feel as if you could do this all night, you’re back, and wondering why on earth you don’t.