It’s one of those days that makes me want to walk into a fight. Not because I’m a ‘manly man’ or because I have something to prove. No, I have nothing left to prove to you. People might say I have to prove things to myself, I guess, but this has nothing to do with that. This is about something much less cerebral. It’s not about power, or pride, or anything. It’s just… I need to let it out. Like the Hulk, I know something is building inside, something dark and destructive – only unlike Bruce Banner, I don’t have a watch to keep track of my pulse and tell me when it will manifest.
This is not me being morbid, by the way. This is just me. Trying to burn plastic (or a piece of my clothing) over a candle flame or wondering whether the funeral directors I live next to would let me in if I said I was writing a book…that’s morbid. This thing is not about that.
This is about impatience, about violence…
Even so, summer is almost upon us. People from back home are asking – well, expecting, actually – when I will go back for the summer (and probably, by extension, more permanently).
Cyprus: I read it on the cover of a tour book. That’s when I feel it; that slight tug at the heartstrings, that slight betrayal of humanity. It used to be my home, for more than two decades, but now it only inspires a strong sense of loss.Would I go back? Yes, probably. I need to see my parents at some point, after all. Do I want to go back? No…. not really. Well, yes, but each time reminds me how much I don’t fit in, or rather, how much I’ve changed. I always stuck out – more or less due to my behaviour, my way of thinking. Now, it comes up, and I feel like the betrayed and the betrayer. I left, I got out while I could, and I need to stay away for my own good. I wouldn’t die there, but I am taking the bloody privilege of being able to stay away and attempt not to be miserable.
On the other hand, I miss them – my friends, my parents, the air, the colours, the land itself. But then, no one there gives a damn about the land. It’s always about the people. Actually, there might be one or two who do care about the land – they had that campaign about zero tolerance for illegal hunters. I like them peeps.
Still, it always felt as though something is missing.
More recently, there’s been a campaign in Greece that’s trying to stop a bill going through parliament that would lay waste to the natural beauty of its beaches. I like those peeps too… Should try and help them save the Mediterranean.
And yet, something is always missing. The puzzles I bought are unfinished. The books on the shelves unread, leaving me thus estranged – a mental barrier away from knowledge. It’s like playing cards and obviously not knowing what the other players hold. So clearly it’s not anyone else’s fault or problem. Or maybe it’s my upbringing… how much of that can I separate from myself? Or maybe I am entirely at fault.
Either way, it’s not a game, is it?
Writing used to be the outlet. It always was. I was careful; I did it every day so it wouldn’t get out of hand. Unfortunately, I realised that I would silence, stifle, and strangle the voice if I had to, just to pay the bills. I would get a day job. I would, but I haven’t. It’s not to say I haven’t tried, but haven’t quite made that leap yet. On the other hand, I have given up on looking for a day job, burrowing myself into my mind and feeding my delusions a while longer. After all, that is the last stronghold, isn’t it?