6 more weeks

your glassy eyes betray you

Ive got about six more weeks before i leave the country and swap one city for another. Starting thinking back about the last two years. i was rummaging through my old SBO and found my bmt notebook. It was filled with strange diagrams about the cross sections of grenades and M16s, notes on how to strip and assemble,effective killing ranges, section fire movement, geneva convention,trench digging, first aid, and of course the lyrics to a whole family of horribly written marching songs that we had to memorise. Now and then id find a little section amongst the pages where id jot down my feelings, in point form. Slotted into the cover was a sodden ruined photo that used to be of her but now is of abstract colour swirls that vaguely resemble a human likeness. Id try and keep it from the rain at field camp, but the rain would soak right through into everything no matter how you kept it.

Its funny how much situations can change and what was once so real now seems so strange and alien an experience. How varying degrees of deprivation and providence can define your outlook so much, how much you can gain from loss and how much you can lose apon gaining something.

Im looking forward to starting uni. When i was really young i used to believe that i was destined for greatness, that id become a successful musician, or an artist or some shite like that. That what id done and contributed would matter and echo down some minor corridor of history. Then i got older and realised more and more how delusional that was, and downsized my expectations progressively in accordance with the mounting level of cynicism that comes with frequent reality checks.You start analysing the quality of your writing or seeing your gigs on video and realise you dont have that potential genius you hoped for. But you still hope that you can leave something behind.

Maybe one day you will be a decrepit old geezer with leather for skin. And youl sit down because someone left you there like inconvenient furniture and you cant get up yourself. You might start gazing out behind those coin thick cataracts into distances too far for anyone to follow, and start to think of memories that no one can be half arsed to hear about through your toothless orifice of a mouth. If your mind hasnt degraded into a congealed slush of second childhood and alzheimers you will start contemplating your death and the meaning of your life. You might consider the possibility that there is really nothing beyond death and at that moment you can only hope that you can look back on a life well lived, and remember people who love you and loved you once and people you love and loved once. Then maybe you will feel a wave of peace or satisfaction that will coincide with the involuntary fart your weakened muscles had no option of containing. Then you can die.