Monday, 6 January 2014

T // S

I have been thinking about the size of things, of time, of space that contracts and dilates. I have been wondering how it is possible to spend months on end and idle, in a fugue that a single appointment can loom over with all the defiance of Edinburgh’s Craggs.

And then, I have been thinking about the strange qualities of time once you stop waiting for it. How the moment you quit sitting around wondering about time showing up is the moment it will arrive at your door, unbidden, and squeeze between all the fingers and footstools.

Suddenly there will be space for all the stories to be written. Hours will ooze into your pockets, into your sacks, into all the places you carry. Your nights will stretch out long and languorous, or your nights will gallop by, but you will feel no need to tether them to all of your fence posts because you know in the final calling you have your heart’s lasso and can leap back into the saddle.

I have been thinking about how much easier everything is now that I am clawed by tasks and the reek of the working world. I play Cabaret on repeat:

    What use is sitting all alone in your room? Come, hear the music play…

and I realise that even though it is just January, I am already so bored of being inside. I am going to slip into this city again and again like rice and confetti; I plan to twist into a creature of the night.

We bounce up and down on unmade beds, laughing at the length of the days. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Everything still spinning and just in its place.

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