“So, how’d you find the stories?” 

“I found them boring. My eyes started to glaze over.” 

“You mean they- “ 

“They weren’t what I would usually- “ 

“Yeah, do you have any- “ 

“No, no” 

As I said that last part, I realized that my initial comment didn’t really cover it. It was like trying to throw a fishing net on an aquarium window- I didn’t catch anything to feast on. I was told that the feedback in class and online was to be constructive as it was a first-year class, and most were still learning. Most were still adapting to the nerves of sharing, and me saying something like that was pushing them down before they even learned how to walk. This is why, when I received a room of disgusted looks, it felt natural and deserved, as when the soul is bared, which is what creative writing does, the soul should be wondered at, not brutalised.  

Wrapped in horror, I apologized rather poorly. Timidly, I typed an apology in the forum feedback, nestled between words. 

“It was really interesting and not boring (sorry).” 

I really thought I saved myself but all I did was use the anonymity of the forum to prevent shame from forming in a formal, in-person apology. I put myself first, not the people who I put down. The forum didn’t save me, but I could’ve saved myself in class.  

 

Now in taking that in, it may seem banal and tedious to read, but to me, that defined the day, invited the night to absorb me, drown me, pull up burnt-down parts of me and ritually dance and humiliate me. On the tram ride home, I watched the people and began using them as screens to project the moment on, replaying each subtle movement, from the slightest twitch of the mouth to a blink or roll of the eye, or even the wipe of the nose. Yet, the shame continued to build. 

I was fighting with ways to collapse the shame before it fully formed, fighting with ways to delay the night. The forum seemed like the perfect opportunity. For what solves a whole complex situation other than a single word - Sorry. It did. It provided closure and cut the sick growths of shame just as they were birthed. The vines of anger, sadness and annoyance fell away like shrapnel on the floor of my mind. Shrapnel, I’ll cut myself on later and bleed all that happened. All will fall in line again, for a brief moment. 

In that moment of closure, I posted on the forum, locked the key, and watched as the fire I’d worked so hard to kindle coughed and spluttered into ash, painting me black and sullying my path. The fear that came with that. Oh god. 

My vision became blurry, and my body gained innumerable kilos of weight. It had been a while since I felt this way and I knew it wasn’t a good sign. This used to happen to me in the past, before I even attempted to light a fire, childishly projecting my fears onto others. A time when I took the ashes of forgotten fires and used them to blind myself. I painted them over my eyes to make myself blind, so I could hide and hope that, in darkness, I wouldn't feel so afraid and alone. As, in darkness, nothing is seen or felt. 

That’s why I cowardly apologised and hoped it would return me to my body, however, as expected, it didn’t till the day after. I want to clarify that when I say I am leaving myself, I do not mean that someone else takes control. Instead, I feel like I am watching myself from above my body. It's as if my body is moving without my conscious control, following prior instructions that I am not aware of. This experience first occurred during moments of strife in my childhood, and since then, I have used this method of detachment during every moment of struggle or hardship. It is a terrifying feeling, as it seems like my main experience of being alive is being taken away from me. Nowadays, this experience is rare, but back in 2022, it felt like I had no tangible experience of living. I felt like an outsider looking in at my own body. This led me to try to regain control and stay present in reality, rather than running away. 

The experience in my creative writing class at university threw me back in - knocking rusted gears back into motion, while with calloused hands, I tried to stop the method I learnt. Instead of simply existing, I embraced the love ethic, which believes that every human being deserves to lead a self-determined and meaningful life by acting with love and receiving love in return. To put this belief into action, I realized that the best course of action was to apologize and make amends. But apologies, rather, the word “sorry”, rarely work, yet there isn’t another word. We know the word doesn’t work yet we still use it as the weight of its absence stings more than what was done to necessitate the use of the word.  

Once I’d realigned myself, a musical I had recently watched came to mind. Everyone knows the movie or at least the concept of Groundhog Day - it’s a person who lives the same day over and over again. I watched the musical that had been made on this and walked away feeling the kindling catching more than usual, almost scolding the sides of the skull. Initially, I thought it was the possibility of living the same day again. Although it may seem tedious, there is moral absolution in doing anything you want without repercussions.  

Now, I don’t mean criminal activities, if that’s entered the mind. No, definitely not. What I mean is that I could have that dialogue from the start and never have that visceral reaction for I know it would hold no weight the next day. I could be as rude as possible, scold that person more, maybe drop in some superfluous defamatory words as a pretentious sheltered person does. I could enter transactions, social interactions with another and not think, not let me be turned inside out with a desire to be liked. That smudging of ash, that dashing of self-dissolution, destruction I seem so obsessed with, would be banal or tread the line between void and endless noise, I can commit. 

It seemed like an answer. 

Till it didn’t. 

Till I listened to the last song of the musical again, on the plane back. I don’t know if it was the altitude or long overdue mature clarity, but I realised the hell of it. There is no moral absolution if a human mind can think, no, if a human mind can be.  

After my first dialogue, I was consumed by a deep sense of shame which left me feeling dismembered. I felt like an assortment of disconnected parts, scattered across a desolate wasteland where the only thing that remained was the dread of losing a loved one. The detachment I felt was so intense that it reduced me to absolute nothingness, devoid of any meaning or purpose. In this state, I had no physical body, no emotions, no memories, and no connections to anything or anyone. It was as if I had been reduced to pure, distilled nothingness, without any kindling, ash, or heat. 

That last song was “Seeing You”. I’d recommend it, but I have also recommended Twenty Pilots and Imagine Dragons to people unironically, so do be warned. The song is about the main character finally seeing people and his love interest properly for the first time. He realizes that the repetition of the same day had blinded him with ignorance but now he sees through the ash and understands. It really got me thinking.  

When have I actually seen someone? 

When have I taken the time to be there? 

When have I taken the time to actually be with someone? 

When have I been completely absorbed by the moment? 

Sadly, never.  

Well, not in my recollection. I’ve been so preoccupied. So eaten. So focused on defacing the insides, not having to account for my actions outside, that I’ve never seen someone. I’ve never been there. 

That broke my heart. 

I’ve been in relationships before, but that was the first time my heart broke. 

I have parents that love me. A brother that loves me. Grandparents that love me. I have an endless list of people that love me more than I could ever know.  

Yet. 

I have never seen them before. I have never been there. 

I’ve been fighting with the kindling I laid - the kindling I laid when I wore shutters, hiding the truth about the nature of change and how painful individual change truly is. For, as cliché as it may be, they were more adept at lighting, at laying kindling than me, but I’ve been so absorbed by the chase of it, catching, the burning of it that I didn’t see them. All it was - this restless striving, trying to be kind, trying to feel warm - was all to delay the night. 

In the musical, the night is obviously referencing death. A character in the musical, who we initially see as annoying, your typical salesman, turns out to have lost his wife recently. This twist comes as a shock which is exacerbated when he sings “Night Will Come”, a song about the inevitably of endings, which reminded me that, even in moral absolution, time will pass. It has to, and in passing, it pulls the end closer no matter how you live your life. 

Sad, Sure. 

But also, brilliant. 

I get to live my life fighting with the kindling, using mine and other hands to light a fire bright enough to not only warm my skull, but others too.  

Returning one last time to the musical, the main character is a weatherman. In a sense, we all are too, trying to predict, guess, minimize life so we can predict the outcome. Guess the storms. Guess the weather. Guess everything, and scream at ourselves and others to prepare. 

That’s why we stumble, fall, collapse, lose and maybe, that’s why we are filled with such vivid emotion that we weep at losing and being in love. By no means am I saying that we should give up our generational roles as weather people. All I’m saying is that we should enjoy the lunch breaks, the time before and after work, the drive to work. We should look and see everything as if it is the first time, as if we had been freed from an endless loop that took sanity and senses and ability to see. We should act as if the shock of vision had been returned to us after a life of blindness. As if we see the waxy pale moon for the first time or tragically beautiful trees pushed against a navy-blue depthless night sky for the first time. 

To set the scene, I recently had a Skype call with my grandparents. I didn't say much, instead, my mum did most of the talking. I focused on simply looking at my grandparents and tried to suppress any urges I had to play with a lighter or create art with ash. I just looked at them. 

I looked at them and never realised how beautiful their eyes were. 

How in love they were with each other after 50 years. 

How love is the constant cleansing of the eyes, constantly waking up and seeing as if this is the first time. 

That ignited the kindling I never laid. We all lay kindling that we hope to light, with the intention of forcing love to ignite in the flames and the flames to crackle with the laughter and loss of lovers. However, we need not lay the kindling ourselves. Sometimes, like in this moment, the kindling will lay itself, and ignite on its own.