L and I moved to America-- Ireland was beautiful, but coquettish, and we had to abandon her. I hear spring is hatching there now, but in NH it's still cold, cold, and snow. I forgot how the wind hurts. It occurred to me that I don't understand wind-- where does it come from, what gives it it's force? It seems bizarre that I don't understand all of my surroundings-- I bet that most people don't. I don't know why my body aches and my bones crack, but they do.
I had someone argue with me that because life is temporary, it's not real. I pointed out that the two are not mutually exclusive, and he looked as though he wanted to cry, or hit me, or both. I continued saying that if I were to hit him, I would be responsible for my actions, my hand would ache, his face would bruise, and that's real. He remained unconvinced, saying that in sleep we return to the timelessness of the spirit, and every day life is unreal. This, touched a nerve. "I've cried out in pain in my sleep," I growled, believing that this thinking could lead to heinous crimes against a person in the name of "unreality, timelessness, spirit." I was angry that someone could neglect the calls of a body, of any sentient thing, but I reconsidered. I think some people need to not participate in reality. They decide not to know about the pain, the wind, or anything because it's they feel it's less frightening to try to live above it in some barely forged ether of the unsettled mind. I don't mind-- although, I do find it a little terrifying.
I'd rather know why things happen, feel my body and know I am it and its animation. Moving country again is a scary visceral feeling. I don't have many connections, I'm not sure where I go next, I don't understand my friends' references, I say 'vitamins' in an Irish accent.... But I'd rather be present and accept my life as real. I don't know how else I'd enjoy it.
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