I have had enough of the mountains for now. The change of altitude places me in a state of confusion to which I can’t respond. My perception of time has been stirred. My body hasn’t yet adjusted to the continental climate. The rapid change from hot to cold is new to me. On the other hand, this climate reflects this country’s mental stability and I kind of like it. There is still a lot to learn.
In all honesty, my holiday here in Vancouver (apart from visiting my relatives and grandma) is to regain a sense of home and London to remind myself where I have been and where I am now. I no longer see the significance of where I’m from but where I’m going and where I’ve been. Knowing where I’m from means knowing who I am. And that’s an old story. What matters is who I might become since I’m only looking to grow and clear my chest.
To fully focus on that, I have to let go of the past year. I don’t know why the only way to face the past is to be near the sea. There is a sense of familiarity and freedom in open water that connects me with the clutter inside my chest, and I see an opportunity to wash it all off me – the sadness and the fears. I need to remove them, yes. Despite knowing that they will always return, I can at least hold on to my philosophy and pretend that I care, no? So I’ll continue writing about it, but hide it behind your back. Your job is to distract me by responding to my smile because all I will see, then, is yours.
Lately, my obsession with numerology is overkill. 229, 13:00, 1660, …
I see numbers I don’t want to see because I’m too chicken to face them with confidence. I don’t know if it’s an insidious approach of an apocalypse or just my imagination. And I’m getting tired of looking for reasons to stay strong. Moreover, I’ve experienced a series of precognition in the last few days, which, luckily, have only been harmless but still very unsettling to some degree.
You remember my blog from a couple of months ago about the girl in the mountains and the man at the sea? They will never be together. But longing for each other emphasises an even stronger facet of love à la Hemingway. The Old Man and the Sea meet Hills like White Elephants. There are only images, no words. I don’t know how to describe these images to you, so you’ll perceive them the way I do. In the end, I don’t think anyone can do that – understanding each other, I mean.
The last page of A Farewell to Arms is the exact equivalent of Vancouver’s autumn weather, and I can’t help believing that I will light my first cigarette in this country tomorrow. It’s my own fault for being so disorganised and missing out on autumn in Ontario.
Sometimes I wish I could view things like everyone else, see the beauty in what they see, so I can be part of them and talk about things. But apparently, I lack common sense because my surgeon sees more beauty and hope in an incision through which the sun shines.
But these people don’t see it.
I want to see some redemptive colours tomorrow to help me let go, please.
