we’re out on a date in a restaurant nearby. my chair faces the window looking out on the high street, bathed in that evening spring glow.
my mind is flitting. too much work mulch, not enough “focus-on-the-love-of-your-life”. my mind flits and my eyes flit, and then i spot them.
a pair of pigeons. sat on a roof in my direct line of sight. they’re cuddling, it looks like. in that birdy way, their cooing heads occasionally forming a little heart.
i point them out to him and we watch, for a while.
then a third pigeon shows up. sits at a distance, watching.
“They’re shagging, aren’t they? We’re basically watching pigeon sex happening.”
they’re shagging. in that evening spring glow – a beautiful, tentatively warm day – we are sitting in a restaurant watching two pigeons having sex on a roof.
briefly. before either of us can say anything else, the third pigeon intervenes and an actual fucking soap opera breaks out on that roof. feathers fly. one pigeon is unceremoniously pushed from its perch. it’s over in seconds but it takes us a short while to process what the hell we’ve just been observing.
and then the food comes and we talk and laugh and my brain stops flitting and starts shutting the hell up for a change. it’s nice. so very, very nice to reconnect in this most basic way considering we haven’t really had the chance to do so in the past few weeks.
pigeon-related drama and all.
so i google “can you feel your depression in your head”
because there’s no other way I can express that sense of my brain
being much like a tangle of cables.
but apparently some people report feeling a something
like a pressure or a fullness there
it’s odd, really.
but it makes sense considering how
at certain times
that tangled cables feeling consumes most of the rest of my body.
a horrid kind of bondage
with rope made of brain chemistry and a yapping little voice
repeating the same damn things over and over
until you’re almost breathless with the knowledge
of how badly your mind can turn on you.
I took a minute till the penny dropped, you know
My tears don’t fall too often
But your knife is cuttin’ me deep
I hear her sing it on the BRIT Awards. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m off from work, and I’m tentatively playing around with words for a submission.
There’s a sentence in my head that somehow, with a little help from her voice, flows into a paragraph onto the page. Her lyrics and the words in my head don’t match in theme but fuck it, she’s helping and I’m writing and the prose feels sensual and raw and still like me.
Later on I’ll think of what she’s actually singing. And I’ll be reminded of moments I didn’t want to be reminded of. Moments where I’d been made to feel like a dirty little secret. Moments where who I used to be was turned against me and I let it happen because I didn’t know.
And I’ll be glad because she’s fucking done it, hasn’t she? By chance, this random repeat of Emeli Sandé’s performing Hurts at the BRITS a few days ago gives me, better late than never, the right words to express to myself what I felt back then.
Sometimes life happens out of sequence. It’s less than 24 hours earlier that I come to the realization that I am done with letting that kind of pain have such a power over me.
Her voice gives me a wave to write on. Her lyrics give me the right words to express old wounds.
When all that’s left to do is watch it burn
Oh baby, I’m not made of stone, it hurts