Stream of Consciousness 03: Farewell, Newtown. Enter Silence.
It is my final night on my balcony beneath the…I would say stars, but if I’m being honest, it’s just light pollution and one single star that has seemingly parted the clouds tonight. The bats have not gotten old, they still dazzle me as they periodically swirl over my head, and my giant pink bean bag chair has not lost its charm. I’ve always been a sucker for creative seating. I hope it brings as much joy and inspiration to my legend of a housemate, who will be inheriting it upon my departure.
I nearly had a meltdown whilst packing up my life today. I attributed said meltdown to the anxiety that arises from feeling tethered to suitcases which render me less easily nomadic. I resent societal norms, and the cold for requiring me to lug around more than just the black on black crop top and high waisted shorts ensemble that feels like second skin. I swear sometimes, I want to burn all the rest. Stuff is the worst, it just weighs you down.
This has been home for by far the longest period over the past four years. I moved in on November 27th, just shy of 5 months spent in the vibey, colourful suburb of Newtown. I shudder thinking that I nearly moved to the beaches, where though the scenery was beautiful, my soul was not alight. I needed streets made of art, yoga studio neighbours, bookstores selling old paper scent, cruelty-free eateries left and right, and kombucha on tap.
The words just haven’t been coming to me. The ideas are abundant and I should specify, the words do come, just not quite the right ones. It’s exasperating as I’m craving them right now. I want to share my life with you, talk to you about all of the crazy, inspiring, cathartic shit that’s been happening lately. I’ve been ticking off bucket list goals like items on a Type A's to-do list, and discarding stifling thoughts and behaviours like it's going out of style. As per usual, there is so damn much to write about that I can’t even begin to begin.
I want to write about the deep gratitude that I feel for things that used to hurt—impermanence, being, friendship. I want to write about how fucking good it feels to finally get off my ass and do the activism that my soul has craved since I was a child. I want to write about the simultaneous terror and exhilaration experienced upon standing up and reading my poetry in front of a room full of strangers for the very first time. I want to write about how I’m running out of hindrances to happiness. I want to write about the lightness of figuratively shedding 200 and some odd pounds thanks to long overdue goodbyes. I want to write about how shit scared I am that tomorrow is the day that I begin a 10 day vow of silence, 100 hours of seated, silent meditation, and learn to shake hands with even the most loathsome contents of my mind.
My eyes are heavy though and I really should be going. I was meant to be training my body for the upcoming 4AM Vipassana wakeup calls...it's 3AM and somnolence still feels distant. I’ll be back eleven days from now, perhaps in a better place to write about all of these things that I so desperately want to share with you...perhaps not. Either way, I’ll catch you on the flip side of silence.