This is it, the point on the graph I lived to compensate for; that predictable, unavoidable dip.
All of the running through streets, dancing in bars, throwing up on trees, singing and cycling and climbing and eating and reading, shopping, and fighting and loving and fucking and living prepared me for it. I'm alone-in contact with loved ones but all far away with me shaped holes in their lives and then shaped holes in mine: then all dream and life chasing, without me.
I have stored up glee and giddiness and memories to protect myself. And now the dip is here, it's neither too soon nor too great. I can survive it. Maybe that's worse?
No! It wasn't for nothing, all of that frantic living. It was my only living and it was just for me. It wasn't imagined, or for an advert or a magazine, no pose or posturing. It was for my soul, for my happiness and now I'm alone when I want to dance and my hands and my feet and my pockets are worn thin but my mind is full up with that happiness. Those late nights, early mornings, breakfasts, lunches dinners suppers, coffees, the rooftops, basements, council flat, warehouses, Tuesdays, Wednesdays Thursdays, Fridays, Sundays, on table tops, street corners, in parks, on bike-drinks and laughs and shared intimacies. They have filled me up so that this pin pricking won't pop me I'm too full to pop my happinesses. I'm safe. Like I always planned, safe from what reality and life were destined to stab me with: not being inexhaustible, not being indispensable. Being finite.
My life warned me of that long ago. I took heed of the warning. Lived knowing and loving it because I could be ready for it. And i am. Thankfully...?
