It’s ten past four on the afternoon of the first of February.
The coffee machine is out of order.
People are grumpy, vulnerable.
And scared. Very scared.
The clinic, as usual, is running late.
Up to 80 minutes.
But it’s ok, ok, ok, ok because, we may be seen earlier.
And besides; somebody somewhere is deeply sorry for the inconvenience.
This is a special place.
A curious, spectacular train crash of everything that makes us so tormentedly human.
Tricked out to look like something different.
But no-one here is fooled.
Impossible chords of bravery, courage, sadness and hope chime between its walls.
And charge the air between the people that blink here.
Some of whom used to walk in.
Now they roll out.
And stare ahead.
Trying to remember where they placed the breadcrumbs.
Back to that ‘other thing’ they used to wake up to.
Every 6 or so weeks I come to this place.
But alone, nonetheless.
It’s a unique place in which I am able to be a unique version of me.
Stripped bare of ego.
Vulnerable, scared, always.
But uniquely, me.
My parallel universe.
Where the loneliness hurts but is necessary and welcome.
From that guy to this one.
Lucid, wide open, honest, transparent.
For not being a better this, that and the other.
For not having the courage to be more of this me, out there.
But that’s the goal, isn’t it?
We all long for beautiful, brilliant lives.
But beautiful, brilliant lives do not just happen.
They are built daily.
(May that beautiful life be yours always.)
Love for others.
Love for ourselves.
The things we believe in.
They say graveyards are the richest places on the planet.
Ideas worth trillions, buried with souls on new journeys.
Gone but for the grace of provenance.
Maybe those people didn’t love themselves enough.
Or their ideas.
The things they believed in.
Or perhaps they were just scared.
Couldn’t find where or how to start.
To truly start, it would seem, is the hardest peak to climb.
Because to truly start is to commit to a beautiful, brilliant life.
All bridges burned.
The things we believe in.
I’ve tried to start.
So many times.
And yet I find myself nowhere nearer to where I want to be.
Cycling in and out of hopeful elevators.
Or am I?
Has all this toiling in turbulence brought me to the very place to which I once pointed at on the map?
Is one man’s turbulence, another man’s clarity?
Another man’s Calm?
And were the bridges burned on my behalf?
Scored by Nils Frahm, they’ll come to get me soon.
Maybe it’s finally time to start.
To commit to that beautiful, brilliant life.
Or what’s left of it.
The thing that I believe in.
Which, as some may know.
And the things that they believe in.
The pain in soil covered ideas far outweighs the pain of starting.
Please start. Just. Start.
Strange. Or Not.
Between the walls of such a place.
Defined by ambiguity.
Supervised by hope.
That I should find a place to start.