The sun in my face, I walked down an interminable road towards
Something, I never knew what
But I was so sure I would reach it, and great things would be at the end of the road
Things of passion and light.
By 27, I’d learned that adult life was not about passion
Nor about interminable roads and sun in your eyes, except during the two-week holiday when adults pretend they’ve arrived somewhere, try to photograph time to a standstill, and hide in a jug of sangria.
Adult life is a matter of washing and carrying, moving, scrubbing, cooking and typing, all the while looking very serious
Ironing ties and dreading the laddered pantyhose
Sitting still focusing all day on unimportant things for money
Ogling most nights at made-up passion in books and television
Calling everyone a fool who opts out.
And then wondering why life doesn’t feel right,
Waking up at night in a sweat with your heart pumping,
Uncomfortable at the thought that the Earth has no problem turning without you
That the leaves drop and turn to black mush in the gutter every autumn
And once the sangria’s gone, there’s nowhere left to hide.
At 37 I find myself staring at the sun again, hoping to unlearn everything.
Life was supposed to be a joyous dance.