You were like an Shakespearean tragedy, with epics highs, breathy sighs and the the callous dialogue of someone unafraid. It's been nothing short of dramatic; it's blank stares, cold whispers, wispy breaths. People with no faces, and a desperate tangle of limbs and skin. It's dancing to Jay Z and making sense of non-sense.
Shamelessly plundering the trite poetry found in debris, endings or the irretrievable, dig it up, sift through it, rephrase, paraphrase over and over until essence is lost and memory is dry as a bone. Most days i feel like a lump of butter from a forlorn fairytale. Not even so glamorous- a cookbook maybe, landscape butter, melting all the time and at nothing in particular; suspended in a transitory state of mush and weakness.
Evening skies the type citrus cocktails are named after, orange, bleeding smoothly into the pale, pale blue. Chain smoking in airport terminals, pouring over yet another Murakami and cry, and cry, over his impeccable gift for the written word, and wishing so badly you could do just the same. Brief conversations over bland coffee, long-haul journeys with faceless strangers.
The year 'recession' was the buzzword on everybody's lips, the year Michael Jackson died, the year we wannabes got a glimpse of what happens behind the walls of Conde Nast before September every year. It was a year of feathers, sequins, fur and everything else that fell into place.
I remember working hard, and being so afraid of setting standards. I remember people leaving, I remember putting friendships into perspectives, and leaving behind those I never want to see again. I remember broken hearts and shedding tears, and holding on for dear life, wondering what the hell is going on.
It's falling in love with the most incredible city in the world. It's faces, voices, clothes and fireworks, fire escapes that lead to Paradise, and bars that spell bliss. It's finding my place, and shaking in sheer disbelief. It's finding momentary happiness, and The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
Finding God, and attempts making sense.
I negotiate with a silence which will not tell me anything, and perhaps, tomorrow, or someday hopefully, maybe, someone will tell me something entirely reassuring. But for now, I am unsure. I am afraid. And for now 2009, I cannot wait till the end of the line. I will lick my lips to rid the final traces of debris, breathe you in, and swallow you whole, and all of these will be over. And hopefully, I'll take in a better one.