I walked today, the usual half hour into work. A beautiful cold October morning, with wintry sun and familiar faces along the route. I kept my headphones on, managed a wave across the water, a conas tá? at the traffic lights.
I walked again after lunch, from Mountjoy Square back to Rathmines. I could have gotten a taxi but I didn't want to make smalltalk with the driver. Even walked as far as the river and hopped on a bus, but the thoughts of smiling and stating my fare to the tiománaí, perhaps having to share a seat, were too much. So I walked the 5 kilometres. I was wearing my boots, my soft black leather boots that have seen me through three cold and wet winters in Dublin, that have never so much as blistered my heel, that go with nothing but that I wear with everything. By the time I reached Gardiner Street, the scratch I had felt at my heel on the walk from Love Lane this morning had opened. But I walked on. And then after a few hours of sitting at my desk, going through the motions, I walked my half hour home again.
I sat on the edge of my bed, unzipped my boots and peeled off my tights. There is a bloodied scrape on the back of my ankle. The soft, paper-thin flesh that covers the bone just above my heel is ragged and torn. So I climb under the blankets. The sitting room is in disarray, the painters are in and the furniture is piled high in the centre of the room. I go to bed, because right now I feel like I have nowhere else to go. I open my laptop, because right now I feel like I have nobody else to talk to, at least nobody that I can talk to that will not want to make me feel better. And I do not want to be made feel better. I know what I want, and I am biting back a blind and irrational panic that it may be something I cannot have. Something I do not, for so many reasons, deserve.
I wonder at my persistence. At my willingness to fight. At my wearied determination to hurt myself by holding out for the things I long for most, for the things my senseless soul has decided I need to be happy. I write this, and wonder if in time I will read it again and feel embarrassed by it. I remember a quote - do not worry too much about the indiscretion, foolishness or banality of what you write. Leave Time to take care of it all - and decide to publish it anyway. I wonder then if time has ever done me any favours, or ever will. I tinker with the idea of turning the comments off, and decide that blithe responses to well-meaning comments will be easier than heartfelt ones to personal emails.
I walked again after lunch, from Mountjoy Square back to Rathmines. I could have gotten a taxi but I didn't want to make smalltalk with the driver. Even walked as far as the river and hopped on a bus, but the thoughts of smiling and stating my fare to the tiománaí, perhaps having to share a seat, were too much. So I walked the 5 kilometres. I was wearing my boots, my soft black leather boots that have seen me through three cold and wet winters in Dublin, that have never so much as blistered my heel, that go with nothing but that I wear with everything. By the time I reached Gardiner Street, the scratch I had felt at my heel on the walk from Love Lane this morning had opened. But I walked on. And then after a few hours of sitting at my desk, going through the motions, I walked my half hour home again.
I sat on the edge of my bed, unzipped my boots and peeled off my tights. There is a bloodied scrape on the back of my ankle. The soft, paper-thin flesh that covers the bone just above my heel is ragged and torn. So I climb under the blankets. The sitting room is in disarray, the painters are in and the furniture is piled high in the centre of the room. I go to bed, because right now I feel like I have nowhere else to go. I open my laptop, because right now I feel like I have nobody else to talk to, at least nobody that I can talk to that will not want to make me feel better. And I do not want to be made feel better. I know what I want, and I am biting back a blind and irrational panic that it may be something I cannot have. Something I do not, for so many reasons, deserve.
I wonder at my persistence. At my willingness to fight. At my wearied determination to hurt myself by holding out for the things I long for most, for the things my senseless soul has decided I need to be happy. I write this, and wonder if in time I will read it again and feel embarrassed by it. I remember a quote - do not worry too much about the indiscretion, foolishness or banality of what you write. Leave Time to take care of it all - and decide to publish it anyway. I wonder then if time has ever done me any favours, or ever will. I tinker with the idea of turning the comments off, and decide that blithe responses to well-meaning comments will be easier than heartfelt ones to personal emails.
