My Home At The End of The World
I don’t want to work in business. I don’t want to write. What does a misfit do?
I feel irrigated. Watch my head sprout up from the soil. A neck nothing more than bulbous roots. My body is a column of cold, covered in dirt and rock, but still, I grow. Still, I cower from the blinding sun. Still, at 45, I feel like a child thrusting herself out of the womb, that valiant fist-pumping, screaming at first light because where the fuck am I? What is this? Is this the world? If so, I’d like a do-over. A refund. A chat with your supervisor.
Whether I broke ground or body, I recoiled from the light of hospital, of day, because I knew I’d never find my place. My home at the end of the world.
Five months ago, I stopped drinking because I wanted to see things. There’s no fun in blurred edges. I never had a problem holding my drink —it was the letting go that got tricky. I’m neither alcoholic nor normal. I’m neither happy nor sad. So, when I quit the drink perhaps it was to magnify my ambivalence, this feeling of I’m still here? I never asked for this. I never asked for valiant fists or soil. I never asked to grow up in a generation free of plot twists to watch the young and lost write their own stories. I keep watching a documentary, Kid90, to remember what it was that I had lost. I blast The Go…
