People in My Life (Part Two)

My last post I’m calling “People in My Life (Part One).” This is part two. There’ll be a part three sometime because I love the word trilogy and I’ve been dying for a chance to use it. Trilogy. Such a sexy word. Anyway, enjoy part two, it’s about people I feel most connected to. Not strangers I see in coffee shops, not even necessarily the people I feel most comfortable around, but people I have some kind of special attachment to.

———-

Something a bit weird happened the other day and I’m still feeling the peculiar tingly effect inside my soul somewhere, like there’s a little guy inside me flicking a feather up and down. Except it’s a less annoying feeling, more spiritual, more like a man with a funny hat is chanting some tribal language and crying. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.

It was a weird thing. It was also surprising. It’s also the first time it’s happened in a while. At least a year. Maybe three. So, what was it?

Well, I realised that I actually mean a lot to someone. I mean, it’s happened before. Once? Twice? (Three times a lady?) It just happens so fucking rarely that it’s become a big deal. Before you criticise me for being unsociable, cold, detached (all fair arguments, admittedly), stop and think about the last time you actually felt like you meant something to someone. When was the last time someone actually showed you that you’ve had an impact on their life? Showed you that you’ve changed them in some way?

Fuck, maybe everyone else has that kind of relationship with all their friends and if that’s the case for you, you might as well go listen to Tulisa or Nicki Minge or whatever the fuck else normal people listen to because there’s not much for you here. For me, and people like me who feel like they’re fairly irrelevant in most people’s lives, grab a drink, sit cross-legged on the floor, hang out awhile, and listen.

I have a small collection of things in my life that mean more to me than anything else: I have some handwritten letters from old friends, I have a few journals from my travels, I have a used gig ticket, I have an expired rail pass, and now I have a book. These things, for the most part, fit into a small box. It’s on a chest of drawers at the end of my bed in my parents’ house. It’s my collection of memories, covering all of the most enjoyable, meaningful times of my life: South America, my rail-trip-couchsurfing-experience around America, the last Bluetones gig in the UK, and now, thankfully I suppose, something from my time in Kingston. This box, and the things inside it which aren’t always in said box, are the only things in my life I consider invaluable.

I’m not sure where I was going with that, other than to announce my sentimental side to the world. Oops. If it’s any consolation, it’s a small box. I’m not a hoarder. I didn’t, for instance, keep the business card belonging to that call girl in Vegas (I hope work is good, Mindy, if you’re reading).

So back to the point. I guess it’s about my own attachment issues but I don’t feel like I mean much to people (cue a slew of people posting in the comments that my blog has inspired them to do something amazing). I don’t get attached, I get bored of people quickly, and I’m such a firm believer in the goodness in the human spirit that I feel like I can go find more people to replace any I leave behind.

I suppose the only “cure” is for me to settle down somewhere for more than half a year at a time. But that just doesn’t sound fun, you know? I thought that was what I wanted but now I’m not sure again. Someone asked me recently what I want out of my life. I thought about it for a bit but couldn’t come up with a decent answer. I’m not sure it’s a question I’ll ever be able to answer. Kind of like, “Would you ever consider killing someone for $1 million?” Wait, no, that’s easy to answer, so long as there was no chance of being caught. A million bucks, dude, that’s a lot of money. That’d last the rest of my life if I spent it right and died at a young age, presumably after a cocaine overdose.

tl;dr: I’m a cold-hearted, detached, selfish bastard who only feels like his life has meaning when somebody tells him he’s had an impact on their life.

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