Case of the Ex

Melbourne

I am a spectre haunting a past lover. Convinced by psychics and Google that he is my twin flame. I’m not explaining that. It’s too crazy and contentious.

It’s hard not to succumb to the idea of fate when you are a romantic at heart but the practical side of me asks to evaluate the people that remain in your life and to be grateful. I am.

Melbourne has been placed in our second lockdown. Six weeks. What a drag. I mean, I wrote a semblance of a novel the first time but I have no motivation to do so this time.

I keep obsessively pulling tarot cards I don’t know how to interpret properly or perhaps they don’t give me the answers I want. It’s the latter.

This stranger or new found acquaintance. Non romantic- on my end. I don’t know his intentions, gave me a book. By Hesse, it’s all about Eastern enlightenment. Siddhartha. So Siddhartha ends up losing his son, his son goes to find his own path (not dead) and Siddhartha is in a spiral of grief something he is not used to because he has spent his whole life detached from ‘the world’ or some shit. Dude, talks to a river. It’s fine. But he says of the grief that “the wound has not yet blossomed”. Poignant. If you read my blog you know that I’m obsessed with gardens and roses and thorns and seasons changing. So I enjoy the idea of seeing our woundings  as roses waiting to bloom. Siddhartha’s friend offers him some council “soon you will feel suffering without sadness” and isn’t that all we can hope for in the world.

The world is in complete disorder and all my ego cares about is obviously myself. Ah, to be less selfish. It is human nature to attach meaning to our actions. We cannot accept that it is meaningless, this whole ride. And those of us that can, well we’re probably drunks with drug addictions. I just wonder how monks can spend all day sitting in contemplation. That’s the boat most of us are in at the moment. Left alone with my own thoughts I become reckless. Seeking out ways to create turmoil. I need a hobby or maybe a job. One that isn’t writing because that is just being trapped with your words on a physical page.

Listless,

SJ xx  

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