I am really, truly, properly hilariously drunk.
I’m not proud of myself, I might add. However, it really does the job when the rest of my life is turning to shit. Drunk makes the annoying small bits and pieces of my soul make more sense than it ever used to, so I’ll go with it, at least for now.
And so I watch a beloved TV programme and adore every single moment of it, even when I understand very little. It is so much fun. I am busy and all of the things I have cared about are suddenly relevant.
Like: I used to be a total nerd about gemstones. I know my stones, my partner’s. I know zodiac signs. Of course it is all total bollocks, but I sometimes clutch rose quartz to my heart and breathe my sister’s name and believe, pray, hope, that she remembers me; not the obvious stone, but the complex. I remember her, and I love her, and one day she will remember.
And if she doesn’t, then it is nothing. I will forget. She will forget. It is nothing, I am nothing to her. My sister will never understand the significance of the stone she polished in her rock polisher when she was a child, and I will never confess to the fragments I hold and remember, the weird and stupid and impossible and false things she (and I) remember because it’s not real, because it isn’t there.
Because love and faith and magic are utterly different things. They do not all exist. They are not all real. They are not there.
I only have what I hold, what I remember.
And that is enough, because it has to be.
It has to be.
It is enough.