I feed on...

In response to Riff for Beatriz, a poem by Peter Sirr

I feed on. I am fed. Umbilical cord. Placenta wall. Distance. Proximity. Attachment. I feed on the quiet intimate connections with myself. The whispered conversations in the last light, and first light. I am writing. Not really writing. Today words just seem as words, not gateways. I feel empty, emptied by a too busy week, too much energy expended, a body and mind that are going into decline, into a state of collapse, to feed on immobility, on the cessation of activity, of stimulation. To feed on the quiet life between the covers – my duvet, perhaps my notebook, my skin. To go within, to see what lies there scattered within, shrouded by fatigue. To gather you up again, to hold you close together in my arms. I feel distant. You seem unreal today. Tiredness obscures you, like a dark fog. How to find a way through. Like the poem – asking “who is / are you?” I am not feeding. I am being fed on. Depleted. Source running out. There is a drought. No quench for your thirst here. Only mirage, oasis of memory. I don’t want to keep writing. I am tired and I want to go home. To rest. I have run out. I have nothing left to give. The end. Yet the time keeps ticking. A void that demands to be fed. Throwing my corpse into the yawning pit. Insatiable demands. Inexhaustible demands exhausting me. I am in the fog, whirling around. I can’t see which way to go. Luke and I in the car on New Year’s Eve. Dense fog. Can’t see the roundabout ahead. Hitting it at speed, car veering, bouncing, sudden, abrupt – I can’t even remember words now. Shock. What just happened? Are we okay? Yes. It could have been worse. The hazard of fog. The unseen. What we don’t see coming.

Feeding is not about food. It's never about food. It's what I use to give, to show I care, to share my love. Little portions of affection of grey plates. But I don't feed on food. I feed on the act of putting ingredients together. Placing those in ingredients in my mouth is secondary. In fact, taste has got nothing to do with it at all.

I feed on words, on books with yellowed pages. I feed on music and the tiny connections between rhythm and movement. A beat of the drum coinciding with my foot on the floor. Notes from a piano when I feel sad. A vocal crescendo as the wind blows on my face. Music feeds me.

The love I carry in my heart feeds me.

Curiosity for the world, curiosity for others' point of view, the will to be better, get better, be my best. This feeds me, spurs me along. Every day. I have been feeling blessed. I'm happy while there's parents who have lost children, children who have lost their parents, their friends. Lost to cowardice, a senseless exploding cowardice when they should have been getting back home after a concert. There will be food for them, but they won't eat. They will never be able to let their body and hearts be fed again.

So I'm lucky to be where I am, with all I have, which might not be a lot for some, but it's enough to feed me...

I'm not hungry...

I love. And I don't feel guilty about it.