Someone told me that I use the word lovely too much. Which is great because at least they don’t know that fuck is my favorite word. They would if they heard me outside of work. Outside of pretending to not be messy. But messy can be interesting. Sometimes messy is eating corn flakes in bed watching Schitts Creek. Sometimes messy is weeping at the drop of the hat and sometimes it’s not tearing up at all. Sometimes messy is just a room.
All of us are constantly yearning to be less messy. I croon “There must be some method to the madness. Method to the madness,” and hum along with The Wombats as I try to find patterns in the chaos. It’s unfortunate that I find myself moving closer to messes. It appears that the human mind also tends towards higher entropy. And yet, I am convinced that just the way the Boltzmann brain is sure to come into existence, it is inevitable that order will come into this mess. That the random fluctuations that cause atoms to come together to create a fully formed brain will also help clean up this mess. I am also hopeful that it’ll happen just as spontaneously but take way less time than Boltzmann’s “any time but not infinite amount of time” timeline to bring order into chaos.
Perhaps, it’s better to accept messy. Messy doesn’t mean unhygienic, it’s just not very proper. Then again, I’m not the Queen of England and so a little impropriety is acceptable. Isn’t it? Maybe what Boltzmann was trying to tell us was the order can only be born from chaos. That we are here today but our atoms were just floating around in primordial soup yesterday. Until the patterns finally emerge, I’ll give up on finding answers that don’t really exist. I can’t be bothered looking for unicorns in horse stables. And so I whisper the second half of the chorus, “Still, I don’t wanna know. Just one last smile and then I’ll go.”
I hate hospitals. The sterile smells make me nauseous. The cleanliness tries to mask the grief but it’s difficult to ignore muffled tears in the silence.
There is a certain gloom in most corridors. Despair seems to cling to the chairs and the rancid air is full of it too. People wait patiently for doctors to bring them hope. And hope does come. In the small smiles we pass at each other in solidarity. They seem to say the same thing, “I don’t know you, or your story, but I feel your anguish.”
Where there is pain, there is always room for humor. The nurse is amused by how terrified I am of the needle. The girl with a tattoo obsession and multiple piercings is terrified of needles. There is also conversation with the doctor. She asks if I’m drinking too much coffee or beer. A bit of both I have to admit and she laughs. I don’t think she’s amused though. Probably thinks I’m irresponsible. It’s a reminder that hospitals also have room for happiness.
I seem to forget that. I always think of late nights visits to emergency rooms. Of hospitalization and high blood pressure. Of the one time I spent the night on a sofa, staring at her on the bed. The stark white brought out the greys in her once black hair. Her fine wrinkles were visible for the first time. My mother – she’s aging.
Hospitals are a reminder that we are fallible. That we have limits and we must take care of ourselves. Hospitals are a reminder that we are human. Rarely have I heard prayers so sincere and faith in God ring so loud. Hospitals are the worst. But maybe the annoying toddler tripping up in front of me makes them just a little more bearable.
A social battery is a wild concept. I didn’t understand it until mine finally ran out. It only took five days of constant socialising. I can safely say I understand introverts. In fact, I agree with them. People are exhausting. The fake smiling and small talk are a nightmare. I fucking hate people. And peopling.
A crowd of people is the worst thing to plague society. They are vultures that feed on despair and stale conversations. They do not care about how bored other people are. Conversation will be had and polite laughter will be heard. Too bad if you’re not interested because there is nothing you can do.
In the last few days I have met so many people their faces have become a blur. Some of them I’ll remember. They have interesting quirks that make them stand out. Not that it takes a lot to be noticed in such a homogenous crowd. The worst part is the questions that seem more like personal attacks –
“You’ve lost too much weight, you look malnourished.”
“What are you doing right now? Why this when you can do better?”
“Why didn’t you stay where you studied?”
They make me regret every decision I have ever taken. I sneak away to enjoy my existential crisis in silence. But there is no corner of the house that is quiet. The sounds of conversation leak into every room. I want to bash my head into a wall but I’m terrified small talk will come pouring out of the walls that seem to have soaked up ever dialogue.
The only respite is my laptop and earphones. I can’t wait for the night. And when the night finally comes, all I want to do is curl up in bed. With cake and a movie. No people. None at all.
The world is on fire. Yesterday I read about the Taliban taking over Kabul. Last week I read about mobs calling for Muslim blood in Delhi. I wonder if Sheikh Jarrah was in the news last month or the month before. Covid has made time wobbly like jelly. The clock does not make sense and the headlines make me anxious.
I am scared; there is no way to fix our world. I am angry; we do as much as we can but it is no longer enough. I am disappointed; we could have saved the world but didn’t.
And yet, I find glimmers of hope amidst the despair. I tell myself that maybe everything will be okay. We’ll keep pushing to save our world from apathy, ignorance, and hatred. We’ll clean up the ruins left behind with soft hands and softer hearts. We’ll wipe the tears of those rescued from the rubble with sooty palms. We’ll pull up more chairs so they can take their rightful place at the table. We’ll do as much as we can and hope that it is enough.
Hope. Because I believe in the future. Because yesterday the dog I’ve been feeding every night followed me home. Today he licked my hand. Maybe tomorrow he’ll let me pet him.
You know you’re home when you doze off on the couch and wake up swaddled in a blanket.
Catharsis 