Dreamt last night that I returned to university to oversee a literary anthology I co-founded and used to run; for some reason, the people running the show were angry at me. Which is odd. Disregarding Dystopolis, which remains incomplete for a little while at least, that anthology was my last great creative project, albeit one where I stayed mostly on the publishing side.
The dream bothered me. I looked the anthology up today, and it all looks promising - they completed and released their fourth edition, the deputy editor ascended through the ranks, and there are names I don’t recognise working on the fifth edition. Given that I was there during their first year, there’s a feeling of letting something go when it gains its own autonomy; for a while, I wasn’t sure if my enthusiasm was infectious enough, but apparently it was. I haven’t ever really experienced something like that before - where something you create, with the help of others, gains its own wings.
I can fall into the trap of romanticising my past. Right now, life passes slowly - visa stresses and a job that necessarily limits my potential by virtue of its simplicity reduce everything to a grind. You look back on previous years by comparison, and the big events stand out, along with some of the small ones. We’re not so good at remembering the space in between.
So I remember my first ever kiss, and parties, and meaningful moments with a cluster of people, but I’m not so great when it comes to remembering that school was basically hell for me, and that I spent most of it on a very dangerous precipice towards all-out rage that I only crossed into twice. Nevertheless, high school could almost be characterised as one long anxiety attack with brief moments of respite.
I remember the dramatic unveiling of the book that got me into trouble, by my sixth form principal, to my parents. I remember smirking about it and retelling the scandalous story dozens of times, but never really dwelling on the contents. I’m not the best at remembering the dark nights where I almost admitted to myself that I was keeping myself buoyant by refusing to acknowledge the meaning behind the words I’d put onto paper.
And at university, I remember leading anthology meetings, and moving into a new house, and long walks by the River Ouse in the middle of winter, but recalling the days when I’d never get out of bed, or the feeling of being boxed into what was essentially a box room, or the recurrent anger toward inconsiderate residents of the same complex… that’s all fuzzier.
I’m starting to recognise why people say that school days were the best of their lives. It’s because after a point, the major life events start to slow down, and you’re forced to focus on the space in between - a disadvantage that isn’t draped over the younger years of your life. I still have a few important moments to go over the next couple of years, but that’s not how adults are supposed to define their lives. In theory, anyway. My Mum still runs marathons. I still work towards writing books, and being a better person.
On this week’s episode of The Moth, Brian Finkelstein talked about working at a suicide prevention hotline, and how the thing that kept him going through the dark spots was that life, for the most part, is trash - but that you live for the moments that punctuate it, that feel almost transcendently perfect. The more I think about it, the more I recognise that it’s not necessarily the worst way to approach things. Rather than concentrating on making the day-to-day routine wonderful, focus on creating and allowing for perfect moments whose effects ripple over the humdrum rubbish on either side.
