I have not written a piece like this in a while. Sometimes it’s okay to not be okay with Mother Nature’s intended fate. All lyrics by ‘Villagers’ from their original ‘Nothing Arrived’. It is covered here by Jasmine Kennedy and James Howarth. Their talent is raw, and it is beautiful. I encourage you to listen.
With love and light x
Savannah scatters and the seabird sings
So why should we fear what travel brings?
What were we hoping to get out of this?
Some kind of momentary bliss?
I do not wish to travel far. I will not ask my parents to unfold their mortgage to make an origami of two, so that I may travel afar and anew, although Tumblr tells me that I should expect as much. I will not reach for the petrol clasp, and I will not hunch for a backpack that we know I could never carry. I just wish to move an inch to the left, enough stretch so that I may leave my flesh, if only for a moment. Instead, stethoscopes hang limply around their necks as they pump my flesh full so that I may not stretch so far as to crinkle a single fleck of skin. They do it because I demand it, and I demand it because society demands it of me. You do not allow the bones of a twenty-three year old to expire if they do not need to do as such for another fifty years. Another fifty years of bloody spittle and cracked cartilage, empty excuses for not turning up to life.
What did I hope to get out of this?
A lot more than what I am given.
So instead I bed lovers and escape my flesh by surrendering myself to it entirely.
I waited for Something, and Something died
So I waited for Nothing, and Nothing arrived
It’s our dearest ally, it’s our closest friend
It’s our darkest blackout, it’s our final end
My dear sweet Nothing, let’s start anew
From here on in it’s just me and you
Waited, a past dalliance. I did not wait. I am impatient, heels clicking in white corridors. I am waiting. Waiting for something, something more than what I have been given. Something more than what I am owed. Just as the moon demands nothing of the sun, Mother Nature owes nothing to nobody and no body. It was always going to be when. When I finished High School. When I was accepted into Nursing. When I transferred to Psychology. When I fell in love. When I owned a golden sea cow, all paws and dizzy tail. Something was owed, and something would arrived.
Until something died, and nothing arrived.
It is ironic that the death of something signed my death warrant from nothing sidling into its place. This is not nothing, despite all that I told myself. We knew all along didn’t we? But it’s not nothing.
Nothing is the abandonment of ignorance, and its trysts with bliss. It is the consumption of desperate, gasping breaths as you try to grab tangible, and it’s the quiet kind of sadness that comes with knowing you have an incurable disorder which is going to continue to cripple you, before it finally kills you.
This disease will be my final end, my darkest blackout, my something that will one day arrive and steal me into nothing. Or maybe something, depending on what pretty secrets you like to tell yourself. This disease is not my friend, but its release will be. I beg of you this; do not begrudge me this one last shuddering relief. Judge me if you must, hurl at me demands to be grateful, to ‘fight’, Hallmark card sentiments and bitchy remarks. But allow me the gift of entering nothing unabashed, without the promise of a cure.
I waited for that cure for a long time.
I waited for Something and Something died
So I waited for Nothing, and Nothing arrived
Well I guess it’s over, I guess it’s begun
It’s a losers’ table, but we’ve already won
It’s a funny battle, it’s a constant game
I guess I was busy when Nothing came
This is nothing. This is my life. The fate of my flesh was sealed before I even arrived. It was the usual love story. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl make love (In the shower, as they jokingly remind me whenever I’ve friends slouched in my lounge room). Boy and girl make girl. Girl inherits FBN1 mutation.
And nine months later, nothing arrived. I secured my place at the losers table long before I was forced into its splintered seat, friends whose organs splintered and betrayed not unlike my own. We lost in the game of life long before we understood that we were supposed to win. Maybe it matters, or at least is meant to. Maybe we are fooling ourselves, heads buried alive beneath the grains of sand. You question our sanity, pity our lack of awareness. I cannot speak for the lips of those I love. That is their own choice to make.
I speak only for myself. Some days it’s a battle, and others I cringe at the shame of the semantics, a cheesy placard pinned to my face. A constant game? That has more truth to the matter. Some days I get to class, and a HD arrives. Some days I crumple in an emergency room, and something dies. Sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally. But somewhere along the line, I learnt to keep myself busy. Academia litters my bedroom floor, along with funding applications for not for profits, reply to an email, fall in love with a stranger, and retch blood into the shower drain.
It’s a funny game, living with this disease. The thing about games is one roll is a die. If you have a group? You get to keep playing with the dice.
So I’ll stay at my losers table. You are welcome to join, if you so wish.
But when nothing arrives, I’ll be busy.