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I thought about it today, when the last time was that I wrote about my life. Maybe that’s it, that’s what’s keeping me away: that I’ve gotten too far away from me. I don’t know this land anymore, I don’t know what it is to be autobiographical.

I have stopped knowing, and now every breath is a question. I have looked around and I’m not entirely sure where I am, but it isn’t earth and it sure as hell isn’t home. I’ve wrapped myself up in worlds of fantasy, not entirely content with reality. That’s a lie. There isn’t a part of me that prefers real life these days. All I know is that I’m waiting, waiting for the sort of adventure that will fall out of the sky and crash through my life. I read and listen and watch all these ordinary people, whose lives were made extraordinary, and I wonder if it will ever happen to me. It’s a hope, bordering on insanity; a desperation that this isn’t all there is. It’s enough to turn a normal person mad. But maybe I was never normal. Maybe I was always mad. I think about all the things I could be doing, the power that I can make with paper and ink, I wish I was Van Gogh. I wonder if I will ever write properly. I want to write a book, but I cut my words short: I haven’t yet learned how to fill a book with silence, and I wonder if I should take up acting. I’m too shy. I want to be some part of something and I want to feel extraordinary. I find it too easy to be alone and sometimes this scares me. I want to chase the life I know I can have, but I’m scared of leaving my cat behind. I don’t want to acknowledge how ridiculous that sounds. I feel the earth dragging me closer to the ground and pulling my eyes shut. Dream, it says to me, fill your life with the impossibilities, when all my feet want to do is run. Maybe my mind isn’t big enough, maybe there are a billion other people smarter and more talented than I but maybe I can still be something. I suppose in order to create what I need to I need to go home, to the ocean where everything I’ve lost in this world finally washes up, if I wait long enough. Maybe there I will find my extraordinary.

All this loss

The morning I read that the Japanese Otter had been declared extinct, I thought to myself, “Fuck humanity”, and felt the overwhelming hopelessness of a species that did nothing but live, and for that was punished alongside the greatest criminals by being wiped from this life.

How do you turn these things into beauty when even the words we write are being destroyed by the trees we cut down for the paper ink needs. How do you feel the loss of things when loss to most is the moments before finding your phone and finding that there’s no more milk in the fridge. Still, that sort of loss is tainted with “found” and when do we really know what “extinction” means?

Between the politics of religion and science, between the left and the right, the lambs are still the ones being slaughtered as we celebrate the coming of spring. And what is spring but the dance between life and death?

What justifies a war where the innocents are the only ones who lose? Who will we have left to mourn our loss when all that’s left of this green world is the enterprise of death, and the gods: oh those poor sodden gods are drowning their sorrows for creating such a species as humanity. I don’t really give a shit about being poetic about this because when responsibility is left to the few that don’t care, extinction is something that we caused, and something we’ll forget until the next time someone checks the fridge and finds there’s no more milk.