As the sun broke through painted skies the chill of winters dawn sent icy shivers coursing down our spine. Once again we knew that the world would change for us tomorrow, if it would be a little or a lot, it still remained to be seen but we knew that everything would be looked at through a new lens of ‘what if’s’, ‘but’s’ and maybe’s. Everything that surrounded this event should probably be making us all excited and hopeful yet somehow we felt like the weight of the earth was upon us.
Different shades of excitement, grief and fear, the obligation of living up to exceptions we didn’t know or understand is not something we are strangers too but it never stops hurting. Then there was the underlying question of how and why on earth this was happening at all.
This sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life, this sort of thing doesn’t happen to real people. Yet it was happening to us.
Maybe we could accept one bizarre thing in a lifetime or even two, but not the countless incidence of unusual and trying experiences, over and over and over again. It isn’t possible. We wrote a book about all the crazy things that had happened to us years ago and it already sounded like a work of fiction at that time and now there have been a million more ridiculous oddities occur. It doesn’t make sense.
So. Many. things. It never ends. The wonderful and exciting, the horrific and downright frightening then of course the everyday boring. We all share a body, I can almost accept that now, and we all experience the world in different ways, that too I can grasp when scientifically repeated to me with enough evidence, but damn if it doesn’t feel like every possible unique and crazy experience that may have come to us should we have been born individually has just been thrown at us anyway. It’s too much.
It can’t be real. We cannot be real. It doesn’t make sense. I cannot be real. None of this can possibly be real, why do they try to convince me otherwise, why do they try to involve me in more and more bullshit? Haven’t they had their fun? I don’t want to play this game anymore, I don’t want to be burdened by having to try and live in and understand what can only logically be an imagined reality.
We did the thing, it was yesterday now, there were TV camera’s and questions and so much emotional exposure I was not ready for nor able to take. It’s not really even our story, or mine, it’s my fathers, but they wanted me there and I suppose I wanted to be there in some ways too. I wanted to understand more, to listen, to find out about these strangers across the world who’s blood runs through our veins.
But when they spoke of such nurturing, love and authenticity from the 98yr old grandmother we’d never get to meet a cacophony of feelings avalanched and it was too hard, too much.
Sometimes sharing a body is a good thing, sometimes it means you can just leave and nobody has to know you ever went, it means someone without the emotional investment can take your place and smile and nod and say all the right things and act all the right ways so you can stay hidden and cry without being seen. I’m grateful for that.