Mourning

The past week or so had left me feeling rather apathetic and discontent, but the experience I had today turned my perspective around. I felt that my life was stagnating and that I was kidding myself with dreams of adventure. I experienced disgust in my body and mind and terrified myself (as I often do) at this overwhelming life I have acquired.Today, some people I value highly helped me shed a new light on these somber thoughts.

Tanya Meyer, who by merely existing sheds light around us, shared one of her fantastic projects with us today. This specific project is ‘the one second project’. The project entails taking a one-second video o yourself every day for a year and then compiling a 365 second flashback of the year gone by.

Today at break time, Tanya allowed our circle a private viewing of her two thousand and fourteen. I watched in ¬†awe as this person’s year reached out to us, practically breaking the confines of its screen. The video was enhanced by a handful of those ‘true’ songs which clamp around your heart and force you to feel something. Slowly, Tanya’s year unfurled. Her smiling face in dozens of locations: her kitchen, her bedroom, school and various places across the city (the country, the world)! Every now and again one of us would gasp as our own face appeared above a specific date.

We spent minutes living through her year: following her around the country and back into the comfort of her own home. It felt as if we were curling our fingers around the edges of her life, peeling it open and skimming over her most intimate moments.

October rolled into November and far too soon, December was upon us. The videos continued to tell a beautiful story but as the days of December ticked ominously by, a feeling of dread clutched me.

The video ended and everybody resumed their motion. I exhaled for the first time in a century.

“She’s going to…die.” Murmured my boyfriend from besides me. Someone loudly¬†commented that that was the kind of thing you would play at a funeral. They carried on.

I did not carry on. I looked at my boyfriend and there was an understanding. We sat, blinking ferociously, as we tried to determine what had happened.

We both knew it was something deeply and strangely emotional. It was something about the passage of time. Us, desperately trying to remember forgotten memories. How we missed that sparkle in every day that Tanya had managed to capture.

That year, compressed into a moment, shook us into remembering our own mortality (an issue that we both try very hard to forget). The video was a funeral. It was two thousand and fourteen’s eulogy and we finally had to mourn the year’s passing.

That video showed us that each of those seemingly dull moments were precious and we want to remember them. We came to an agreement today: we are committed to taking those bits and pieces of life and stitching them together in a lovable, memorable pattern. We are going to take pictures. We are going to write down all the moments that make us happier or wiser or better and put them in a jar. We are going to take one second videos.

Then, on the 31st of December we are going to get spectacularly drunk. We are going to crack open that and jar and watch the Hell out of that video. We are going to laugh and cry (a lot) and we are going to give two thousand and fifteen a proper sending off.

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Stale

My eyelids droop and the lashes cling together, zipping my eyes closed. My skin is clammy. I feel every minuscule particle of grime clinging to my feet. My breath does not fill my lungs: it slides halfway down my throat before being thrust out by my impatience. My hair is incurably greasy. My lips are cracking and crumbling. The itch on my shin sends disproportionate waves of discomfort through me. My left foot presses into the tile at an angle and my damaged ankle groans in protest. The blemishes crawl on my face like tiny pests. Skin on my thighs sticks together where my legs cross. Lingering taste of another boring meal, eating purely to stay alive, nauseates me. I feel queasy as the greasy supper travels through me.

My otherwise useless right hand props up my weighted head and the permanence of my fatigue nearly shocks me. But I am past the point of caring now. Hours of mindless activity followed by hours of mindless complacency have rendered me dull. An eternity of the melancholy, the everyday, has left me feeling so empty. I don’t look around myself and see wonder and excitement. I feel disgust at how I have squandered what my mind and body could do. I am too tired.

I glance at my chair and see how the fat of my leg has compressed into ugly dimples of cellulite. My body mimics the stale, disinterested state of my mind. I sit and dream of ‘next year’ and ‘tomorrow’ but today I am nothing.

Today. I am nothing.

I wonder at adventures I will embark on. I desire health and purpose and prosperity but today I am a shell. I say to myself: You are only seventeen. You can’t go yet, you can’t be that yet. You can’t have adventure, or love, or health, or purpose yet.You must just wait a bit longer (just wait).

What happens when I am twenty-seven and I am still clammy, clouded and stale?

What then?