Viktor Wynd

It’s a Sort of Life i Suppose

In - Essays

It’s a sort of life, I suppose, there’s always a gap, a something missing and a portion of that added misery called loneliness…

I seem to pass my time in empty spaces, alone, looking at empty rooms, watching empty roads at night fading into nothingness, cars driving away from me, dissolving,
Studying objects people have abandoned and just left to lie. The old glove, the old shoe, it used to house and it used to be intimate, like I used to hold, I used to be intimate, I used to sheaf, and yet I’m nothing, I know I’m nobody, just a hole, an empty road.

The couch they spent so long making love, the time they spent on the telephone, talking, maybe cuddling, perhaps they had something there, maybe she gave head whilst he watched the sport on the television that used to be adored, the discarded retina of the minds eye,
Abandoned now and left to rot, how central it used to be to their life, prols, the lumpenproletariat, can bread and circuses really make anyone happy? , Now there’s a new one sitting there and the old one’s gone.
No one thinks of it any more
No one thinks of me anymore
Abandoned, left out, the half-light, not quite seeing it, not quite being there.

The mattress, even more than the couch a place of life, like me, I used be there,
I didn’t used to alone. But who am I kidding, I was always alone, we’re always alone, all of us, we know who are, we’re the failures, we’re the people who ring other people because people don’t just ring us, we used to stand alone in the playground, we used to make up games that involved just one, that’s why winning never matters, we’re happy if someone wants to play with us, we’ll let them win, we don’t want to win, what we want is you, we think.

There’s got to be something out there for us.

We can’t just be abandoned souls spinning in a world of our own perceptions, where ghosts and shadows and the night intrigues,
Because like us they’re shimmers of light with no substance, there’s nothing there, at least nothing that any one else can see or feel.
They’re told it’s there, we’re there, I’m there. But really they don’t know and they don’t care.

We’re alone you and me, and really you’re not alone because you don’t exist, you’re my imaginary friend, I’ve created you to have someone to talk to, someone as isolated, as lost, as empty as myself, a way to make me feel that you’re out there, that it was you in the car that drove by, it was you leaving the aero plane, running down the empty street, when I see a couple on their way,
I think it’s me on the left, the man, they seem united, together they’ll face the world, they’ll disappear down the path, the world falls away and disappears on either side of them, their world, around them, of course they kid themselves that they’re happy and they know each other and they’re in love, when really they’re just as isolated as you and me, but the talking and the quarreling and the sex and the children plug the gaps in their emptiness
We have the luxury of the time and the space around us, falling beneath us, or soaring above, we know we’re alone and there’s nothing we can do and we don’t like it. Maybe they’re like us as well and have just made a cynical pact with the void whereby it’ll leave them alone for a while but come back to haunt and to claim them

They take the luxury of discarding loves (images of gloves)

we wouldn’t just abandon something that had been close to us, that had been a part of our life, a place we’d slept on, made love on, witnessed our sweaty disturbed nights and days on intermittent insomnia and unconsciousness, an every changing never remembered world.

How could we ever abandon something that had been so intimate to us, that had covered our most intimate emotions, that had served as both a barrier and a facilitator to an attempt to experience the universal, that at the time of greatest intimacy had taken some of the pleasure away and kept it for itself. What is designed for two will never be the same with three, but even so, you are a bit that I can keep hold of that wont leave me, that wont ignore my calls, my emails, my letters, a bit of a moment, a bit of time, when even for a second I felt not so very alone.

But I’m kidding myself, as I always do, that was a moment, those are moments when I feel more than ever that the world ends at me, I guess I could turn that around, see it a different way and say that the world begins at me, but that would be to deny the hope that sometimes, when I can be bothered, gets me out of bed in the morning, or afternoon, the hope that there is something out there, that there is someone out there, and that when I look at the night, for it’s always the night I look at, I don’t understand the certainty of day, I want the half world, it’s familiar, a place where shapes and meanings are ill defined, where its all very big, where I am but a shadow on the wall, if I’m anything. A place and a time when I can feel so very small that a flicker of a certainty can awaken, that in a place like this maybe maybe I’m not alone.

It’s possible that I’m not the only one sitting at the little table in the restaurant
Someone else too wore these clothes that I found on the street, someone else has played with these toys, another body rested in this bed, it’s intimacy at a remove, at several removes, but it’s intimacy and it’s all I’ve got.

It’s a sort of life I suppose

april 2008