Here I am. Where? Well, here. And now. But how? How did I get here? Actually, it’s more like ‘here’ isn’t it? Rather than… here. Confused? Oh Lord, me too.
While snatching a minute to read a magazine (Living Etc, since you ask: For realistic aspiration) I look down at my foot with its five week-old pedicure and less than peachy skin and I am brought back from interiors reverie (used to be sex, was always sex, now is rarely sex. Or, if it is sex, it requires a committed concentration rather than just a… drift. And it’s unexpectedly pervy) to here.
It is only now that I realise ‘here’ didn’t happen on purpose. I met who I met or I didn’t meet anyone. I live where I live because it popped up at the time. I drive what I drive because – for a reason now long expired – it seemed like a good idea. I wear what I wear because it fits, I can afford it and it presented itself to me in some sinister way. And my personality? Clearly a wild swing from whatever it was five minutes ago. That is the colour and the texture of my ‘here’. Part choice, mostly circumstance. Sometimes an internal howl of, “When will something shift?” followed by a wail of, “I can’t deal with all this change.” Madness. Midness.
Be present, they say. Be mindful. Be here. But here is the most confusing part. ‘There’ is perfectly fathomable. ‘Then’ was what it was. But ‘here’ has a strange self-judgement attached to it. An odd and unwelcome finality. What, so this is me? If I’m to enjoy the journey, please don’t chain me to the idea of ‘here’. It just doesn’t help.