I haven’t got the faint-est idea of what to do with today’s writing prompt… Sigh… Yeah, that’s how much I don’t know what to do with it. At first, I thought I would write about how I used to faint a lot as a teenager and consequently spent unholy amounts of time in hospitals with a small army of doctors doing their best to figure out why I keep hitting the floor like a heroine of a 19th century romance novel, but that’s boring. I’m bored just thinking about it.
Then I thought “faint” as in “unclear, indistinct, vague”, that rung more of a bell, but then, I’m most likely writing about depression and sad, or at the very least melancholy, things again and I don’t feel like it. I’ve had a good day. Tired and tiring, I had problems getting to sleep last night, and was a bit knackered today, but a good day nonetheless. I want to think about things sparkly and shiny, defined contours, juicy colours, frames in focus, clear sharp air. No foggy banks or misty rains, no faint, barely guessed outlines on the horizon of thoughts. I’ll grant you, they have their own beauty, and tomorrow or the day after I’ll be all about that, but today I want to think about alternative universes and favourite poems, and quotes that make my brain fly, and the red fluffy blanket I bought earlier (it’s fabulous, imagine skinning loads of really, really fluffy, vibrantly red teddy-bears… no, that’s horrible, don’t imagine that! But if you did murder and skin these innocent teddy-bears and merged their furs together, that’s what you’d get).
I like bright colours. A lot. I rarely wear anything else. Scarlets and oranges, yellows and fresh-cut greens, bright blues and deep purples, I have no interest in pastels, muted tones, whites and grays. On me at least. This vibrant plumage serves various purposes: as a warning sign; or sometimes I feel so profoundly invisible that I need some way of letting people know I’m still there, so they don’t walk through me, like through air; to cheer myself up; to gather energy; and then, best of all, not as a disguise but to express the true joy inside.
When I was a teenager, I went through a blue phase. It was just a little bit insane. Everything I wore was blue, and blue only: shoes, coats, dresses, jumpers, tops, trousers, handbag, backpack, underwear. My room was painted all blue (including ceiling), I had blue duvet covers, sheets, rug, curtains, furniture, you name it, it was all blue. Please don’t ask me why. I honestly don’t know. It had perhaps something to do with me reading about the supposedly calming effect of that particular colour? Or maybe it was because at that time I got fascinated with the English word “blue” and it’s dual meaning? Or perhaps I was simply a pretentious teenager, I wanted to have my own “thing” and black was done to death by goths, emos and metalheads? Who knows. The point is I breathed blue for about 2 years. And then, overnight, I got so sick of it that I vowed to never wear it again. I do, wear it I mean, but it took some time to embrace it again.
Sometimes in the middle of the night, when I can’t sleep, I like to stay up listening to something gentle and crystalline, and make up little stories about things that could have been but never quite happened. The lives I could have lived if something in my past didn’t happened, or something that never was came to be.
There is this quote I love, from an otherwise pretty unremarkable book:
“The Future is an illusion because, at the most fundamental level, Choice is an illusion. I am a believer in the theory, popular among physicists, that every time there is a Choice, the universe splits: both choices come to pass, but in now-separate universes. And so on, and on, with every choice of every particle, every atom, every molecule, every cell, every being, coming into being. In this universe of universes, everything happens, and every combination of things happens. Our universe is a mote of dust in an ever-growing dust-storm of possibilities, but each mote of dust in that storm is generating its own dust-storm of possibilities every instant, the motes of which in turn… But you get the general impression. Indeed to think of ourselves as single selves, and our universe as a single universe, is to be blinded, by the limitations of our senses and our consciousness, to the infinite-faceted truth: that we are infinite in a universe of universes that are each infinitely infinite…” (…)
(…)”I had immediately to file all the fiction on my shelves under Non-Fiction. For it is an unavoidable corollary of this theory, that Fiction is impossible. For all novels are true histories of worlds as real as ours, but which we cannot see. All stories are possible, all histories have happened. I, billion-bodied, live a trillion lives every quantum instant. Those trillion lives branch out, a quintillion times a second, as every particle in every atom in each mote of dust on land, in sea, and sky, and space, and star, flickering in and out of being in the void, hesitates and decides its next stage. All tragedies, all triumphs, are mine, are yours.
“It is a curious and difficult thing, to think that all is possible. No, probable. No, certain,” I said, attempting to grasp the largeness of the thought. “That nothing is improbable.”
“It is a comforting thought, some nights, to this version of me, now,”(…)
Julian Gough from “Jude: Level 1”
It really is, somehow, a very comforting notion, even if I’m not so sure it’s true. That somewhere out there, just beyond our grasp, but close, closer than we can imagine, there are worlds in which I am an airplane pilot, a scientist, a writer. Somewhere I am right now experiencing everything, all at once. Admittedly, there is hurt, pain and terror far greater than I have ever lived through. There are all shades of misery, boredom, failure and grief. But there are also all the unknown joys, ecstasies and wonders possible and impossible. Somewhere, just behind the veil I am driving a truck in Oklahoma, eating a duck in China, kissing my girlfriend in Edinburgh, meeting you for the first time in a pub in Bolivia, researching sustainable energy sources in an institute in Tokyo, emptying my bank account to run away from the law, stealing Mona Lisa from the Louvre, becoming a Buddhist, colonizing Mars, baking a world record breaking cake. And every instance, every decision, every conversation or lack thereof creates endless possible alternatives, multiplies mine and everyone else’s versions of lives that we live elsewhere, cascades of innumerable existences. And it’s breath-taking. Is it not?