On the train-track overpass near my house, someone has grafitti’ed the words “No Doves Fly Here.” It always makes me wonder what person did it. Were they heartbroken, lonely, depressed? Or were they simply so strung out that that was all that they could manage. I find it hard to believe that the message was meant for me. Even still, I love that piece of writing. That one line that has connotations of anger and soulessness.
"and it's easy to ask questions of ourselves, like:
where it is we're going now and what we have to show for all the sunny days
shut up in the shells of expectations of our ultimate directions,
and the stations that we should have reached by now,
when we haven't read the script and our tender wings are clipped,
and we're scared we might be letting someone down." - Frank Turner
It's funny the things you recall as time drifts along. Two days ago, I remembered something from many years ago. My Grandfather, Norman Morrison, wrote his own eulogy. I don’t remember much of that funeral service; I was probably twelve years old at the time. I remember being a little bit late, I think we stopped for lunch in Geelong or something like that. I do recollect that “Morning Has Broken” by Cat Stevens was playing. That song still conjures up images of the chapel where the service was held. In fact, I don’t really remember much about my grandfather at all. I didn’t really know him. In a lot of ways, I wish I had have had the chance to do so.
Anyway, what I could recall from his eulogy is the final thing in it. As I said, he wrote the thing himself. I guess that’s one of the advantages in having a terminal illness. You know you’re going, so you can spend the time saying goodbye to all of the people you love. So, getting back to the point, his final sentence was this: “Only speak if you can improve on silence.”
I guess I took it onboard, although I never saw it as relevant. Now, twelve or so years on, the memory of that statement rings true. There’s so much talking going on around me, but there’s very little speaking. Noise, if you will. It’s the pass-the-time hobby of so many of us. I can’t exclude myself from this. My mouth works overtime, and sometimes I surprise myself how much crap I can produce in the form of words.
My mouth is capable of digging a hole deeper that I can get out of. I guess it was no surprise when I finally accepted that the one person I wish I could talk to, doesn’t want to hear it. She was smart and got out when she could. I don’t hold that against her at all. She noticed that my language is only there to hide my insecurities about my character.
I find myself following a shadow of her memory. I’m trying to be a person that would be good enough in her eyes to make her at least want to be my friend.
I’ve come to accept that there are some things in life that you shouldn’t regret in life. Knowing this, I can honestly say that I don’t regret any of that relationship. I don’t even regret it ending anymore. Validity of reasons wasn’t clear at first. Now, after some time, and some complete and total silence, I realise how special that time was. I wouldn’t change a thing about it. I reckon if I learn from all of the mistakes that I made there, then I could become a much better person. It’d just be nice to have someone to guide my moral compass, like she did.
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