Supposedly. In actuality I'm sorting through things bought, found, or acquired in an effort to place a value on the memories each contains. Is the ragged red Cananda hoodie I've had for almost ten years worthy of less sentiment than the shiny new cocktail dress I've never worn (and maybe never will)? Oftentimes I find myself drawn back to those old ragged items, the ones that my mum keeps telling me are too worn to wear, too unsturdy to hold my whole book collection. There's some kind of security in a car that has survived hundreds of thousands of kilometers and years of sun and rain, a security that you don't have with this year's model. There's something comforting about the old that the new just can never replicate for me. And no more so than when I'm on unsteady ground.
I'm moving because, after a year of 300+ job applications, two failed jobs, and a knee reconstruction, I'm broke. I have finally put up the white flag and admitted that the only way possible for me to go forward is to start by going back. And so I'm going back home for a while, where my mother fluffs and frets over me not eating enough, my father complains about me sleeping too much, and my dog looks at me with awe and joy.
Even with the decision made over a week ago I still haven't come to terms with my fate. I keep reminding myself that it's only for the short term, that it's just a way to get to where I need to go. And still it cuts and tears at my heart. I feel like I've failed at life, that maybe at 25 this is all I will ever be.
And I feel broken.
If Only
Perfection
is a stubble-tongued whore
who clacks her bedroom
slipper false-teeth
and twitches well-oiled hips
knowingly
you coulda done more
you shoulda done better
if only and if only
you’d sweated harder, never slept, tried again,
double-checked, revised, replaced
been worthy
deserved to be right
it would all have fallen
into place
by now.
by now.
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