This afternoon, I went outside and noticed that even though it was 90 degrees and humid (pretty much the status quo around here from late May-early October),it was raining, one of my favourite types of weather. In fact, it was so beautiful, it made me burst into tears. I’m not sure why, other than it reminded me of a few rare times in my life where I was just perfectly happy, and it seemed like the world was this exciting adventure in which anything was possible. It reminded me of being young and healthy and free and not yet discovering that the world holds a lot of “No”, a lot of disappointment.
I miss that person. I miss those moments. I miss that freedom I used to rely on all the time, to constantly rewrite my own story. Somewhere along the way, I lost that. It’s kind of sad that something as simple and beautiful as rain leaves me mourning for that brief time of possibility that exists in everyone’s life, before we start choosing, and choices have consequences and obligations, and those things shrink the size of your world immensely.
I don’t dream the way I used to. I think I’m afraid that if I did, I’d always want my dreams to become part of my reality, and my reality would be less of a comfort to me.
Image Courtesy Of DangerDame.Com
I have been very ill lately. I don’t know what’s wrong, despite a trip to the ER and the hassle of trying to get in touch with a specialist. There’s a random problem with my heart, which is beyond scary, and the entire month of July has been spent with me barely having the energy to keep up with anything. My world has gotten so small I’m almost the only person in it, and I spend a lot of time feeling scared and alone.
The thing is, too many of my friends have had to leave this world far before they should have. I can’t stand the thought of being one of those people. There are too many things I haven’t done yet, and I’d give anything for a do-over, back to those summers of rainy days when anything was possible and every adventure the most exciting thing in the world.
So, it seems rather appropriate that in the midst of all these worries, and loneliness, and fear that it’s a time in my life to prepare for endings rather than beginnings, I should read about the passing of Amy Winehouse. All of the talent, beauty, charisma, and vivaciousness in the world doesn’t prepare a person for how to live in the world, and how to be content in that world, and in herself. I can only imagine that she would have been thrilled to have departed in the company of so many others with the same struggle; the “27 Club” is full of geniuses, eccentrics, and those that couldn’t reach out and connect in any other way than through the beauty of art.
People have been on the television all weekend, telling tasteless jokes and putting nails in the coffin of a beautiful person they all gave up on a long time ago. But I feel it’s a huge loss, the crashing of a magnificent plumed bird into the sea. RIP, Amy Jade.
Amy Winehouse, A Memorial, by O-Lie