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Wings.

I am only a fledgling. A freshly feathered, brightly painted young creature, ready to defeat the world, and thinking that such is possible only by the wings I have been hastily awarded. This is too new for comfort; I keep stealing looks over my shoulder, expecting somebody to stop me before I edge too far away from the nest, to tell me that it’s safer inside, and come back before you catch your death. With graduation out of Adolescence came a sudden disregard from those around me; as if tearing away from home is the inevitable; as if severing the arteries that pulsed from the heart of my existence has been long expected, almost awaited. No familiar hands hold me away from the white glow of the exit sign, no limbs strain against my relentless drive forward; the only force I feel is the tug of gravity, pulling me across the surface of the globe and planting me to the ground simultaneously. My security lies in my own power, my destination, and the resolve to get there.  I am only now discovering that independence is getting entirely what you pay for. It is not so much the freedom to make your own decisions as it is learning to deal with those decisions, farther down the track. It is making mistakes (because there will always be mistakes to make), and learning to pay for them with your own dignity and reputation. It is throwing yourself into the deep end of uncharted waters, and facing the demons that may reside, because there is simply no other way forward.  It is anticipating the solution to the storm that threatens explosion in times of pressure, rather than leaning on the abilities and answers of others.

I am only a fledgling, testing these wings for size, wrought with fear and excitement for the winds I will surely fly on across the earth. Survival, I have realised, will not depend on my attempts to avoid danger; rather, it will come down to my ability to keep breathing, despite the fact it will be waiting for me at any given moment in time.

The Fiennes.

A dear friend of mine recently (finally) got his musical all act together, recorded it, tied it up with string and called it ‘The Fiennes’. The result; one fantastic indie album that deserves at least a small sample of your ever-decreasing spare time. Have a listen to my personal favourite, You’re Not Left Behind.http://www.myspace.com/thefiennes

Family.

Who’d have thought that the same people that drove me insane, that suffocated and nauseated, patronized and terrorized me, could find a part of my heart simply with the power of absence. We share the same blue blood and the same intricate history. We face the same demons that were shadowed by our parents, see the world through the same eyes that were gifted by our father.

Somehow the thought of suddenly leaving that is more daunting than anything I’ve faced.

I’ll look my demons in the eyes,

lay bare my chest, say “do your best, destroy me.

“See I’ve been to hell and back so many times

I must admit, you kind of bore me.”

365.

You find yourself at the end of the line, crossing the threshold of another year, with the echo of the starting gun still ringing through your ears. It seemed so rapid; a journey too vast for pages, words, or photographs, yet lost in a moment of peace and the flicker of your now heavy eyes. You see it now - this is the future you, your future life, in the future world. So far from the place you began, you can barely even recognise yourself.

“I know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong. To measure yourself at least once. To find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions.”

Carpe Diem.

The room was thick with hot air, his lungs filling with traces of decay and fermented death. The sweetly sickening aroma crawled along the darkened hallways and into the fibres of his navy jumpsuit, leaving him irrationally uncomfortable.

Pulling the zip shut along the large black bag, he watched the teeth of the zipper clamp and hold, while his partner read out the credentials; the life of a man reduced to a few short sentences. “Age, 86. Widower. Cause of death, heart attack”. Hauling the damp weight of death onto the gurney, he couldn’t help but notice the faded photographs on the window sill; and the young man that beamed back in golden youth. The man in the frame seemed an irrevocably powerful version of the shell he now pushed through the hallway. Juvenile, raw and youthful, his future seemed a world away, and yet touching his fingertips at the same moment. His eventual demise was only a myth; a tale told to those who feared the deep end of the spectrum.

And yet, the only thing that stood between that moment in time, and the remains of an inevitable end, was a few short meters. It struck him that time was a great deceiver; that in three more days it would be another week. That 8 more weeks and it would be another year. That in a fleeting moment, he too would become nothing more than a faded photograph, on somebodies windowsill, left for dust.