Wandering Soul

There will never be enough said. In my older years, I have grown wiser to say nothing at all. It was only when I realized that the younger you are, the more freedom you have to govern your hurt. It is less taxing on you. You can pretend it doesn’t hurt as badly. You say to yourself

“I have tomorrow for heartache to leave me. Tomorrow I will be fine. I sit out and wait for my hurt to pass.”

The more you do that, I realized, sooner or later you get old. Then moments become precious. When someone does hurt you, the pang and sting of it last longer. You become more regretful, angry at that person.

Why did they let me live in this hurt? Do they not know I’m no longer young anymore? The pain has hit me deep now, and there aren’t enough days left in my life to chase it away.

What I am trying to say is simple. Though many people have deemed it selfish, I think of it as perseverance—the preservation of my longevity of life. My lifelong mantra is as follows:

Leave me alone and let me live well. Let us be happy without seeing each other.

Ever since then, I have lived in my camper van.

It was instinctual at first. Maybe my ancestors brought me the skills to live and manage on my own. I learned quickly, staying in all types of towns, adapting, and never thinking it was a mistake to live in one place longer than the other.

I take care of myself. I eat healthy foods. I never resort to boiling noodles. It is never convenient to die quicker.

Better to live alone, not knowing where you’re going, than become someone’s burden. To me, not knowing where I am going or what I am doing has become a normal sensation—as normal as brushing teeth or combing one’s hair.

What do I do if I get lonely? I find the pain of loss much to my disconcertment. I happen to think to myself: If I make meaningful connections and adapt like everyone in society, then I will grow aware of time, and timeframes scare me. The moment you make relationships, the time bomb ticks. You tell that person your worries, your regrets, you share happy moments, and you spend the rest of your life being available and open to that person. Then, like all of us, they will go, and you will have to remember the thoughts and the memories that bring as much happiness as resting your finger on a warm open fire. I would rather live not knowing that pain—the pain of loving friendship.

Why am I cynical about life? I have no answers but one: there is too much to concern yourself about. Monetary pleasures are momentary, and sometimes people hunger for affection like a man addicted to pills. Must we all carry such an addiction, feeding on love like hopeless babes? I don’t mean to get so poetic, but it triggers me to think that many times we could force ourselves to be quiet and live lonely lives. The people who think, "No, I could never live that life. Bothering no one. That's ridiculous, that's insane even to think of."

I think if more people minded their own business, they would feel a sense of comfort, knowing that there is nothing truly significant and the state of living becomes your only goal. Life then doesn’t seem awfully complicated.

I had to move once because of a cat. It was a small ginger cat. A cat scratched and scratched at my camper van door. The cat, with no invitation, strolled in casually and sat on the only makeshift chair I had. I did nothing at first until late in the evening when I shooed it out of the house. I swatted it away with my hand.

"Go away," I shouted. I am old, so it is a hoarse whisper. It does as I say and scampers off. I watch it from behind. It doesn’t even look back. I wallow and laugh and pout. That cat. Who does it think it is? To have free roam in my house and not even look back. Not even look thankful that I had let it in.

I guess I had forgotten that speech. It wasn’t long until that cat came around more often, and the ice of my heart melted. I had a feeling of fondness. For me, I did not care that it could have a disease or that it made me have less money when I bought it milk. I didn’t care that I would share my food with it. I could never buy that worthless cat food. I treated it like a prince in some palace. Waited on it hand and foot like it deserved my niceness. It was a long time I stayed in Croydon—all because of a ginger cat. Then one winter morning, I heard no scratch. I got out of my camper van and looked around. The snow had fallen hard that year—the worst winter recorded. I wonder if it hadn’t been the worst blizzard, that the ginger cat wouldn’t have been caught in it and died from the bitter frost. I saw it lying there. Like it was trying to reach me before it froze to death. It knew that I would take care of it. The ginger cat must have thought, "If only I can get to this man’s house I will be okay." I believe I killed the cat—not the snow. It had grown to rely on me. Maybe if I hadn’t showered it with affection, it would have had tougher skin to survive the elements. From that point on, I decided not to even care. Also, I never wanted to visit Croydon again—all because of one silly cat.

There could never be a time where I feel offended because I tread with so much caution. If people are alarmed by my presence, annoyed at the eyesore of my camper van, I move. I don’t think once to stay or try to justify myself. Justification is another word for being soft. Over-sensitive. You shouldn't allow emotions to crowd over your life like a thorn on your side. I move along like the clouds. I feel my emotions are like the sun, and I hide them with the clouds.

So, like I always am, I stay the way I am. In my camper van, with the silence that settles me to sleep and plays like a song. Loneliness is the only thing that is comfortable, like hot warming soup or cold water in the desert.

My room is small. As I sit in my living room, I am in my kitchen. I turn in my bed and close my eyes. I don’t feel claustrophobic, though people would. Even when I close my eyes, it feels smaller. If I stretch my toes, my body is now touching the entire length of the house. I do not need to live anywhere else. My room is my world and globe, and whenever I walk, I tether on each side of the axis. Time for some tea, I think.

The kettle is boiling, and it is a heavenly roar. Most sounds to me feel larger than life itself. When I sneeze, it feels like a volcano has erupted, and when I yawn, it sounds like the roaring of the wind. When I laugh, it feels like children having fun, making daisy bracelets, sealing friendships forever. The kettle steam fills the whole camper van, and I can’t see a thing. Then, I wonder if this is what heaven feels like—to be caught in the mist, and out of it, the most beautiful scenery hits my befallen eyes: the throne room of the Almighty.

My camper van is parked in Greece now. I am parked on a field that is open with many acres, too much for a single viewing to behold. In the center of the field, there is an enormous tree. I remember swinging on it when I was young. Rebecca was always there. A young girl who had come to be my best friend. The only friend a person should need in this life.

I am sitting in this camper van above her, for she is under the ground. I feel I shall stay here. My last stop. I’m not dying yet, but I chose to die here. I’m not bothering anyone... just Rebecca.