An Ode to Not Figuring Everything Out

I’m penniless and pleasantly spirited, and I’m sure there's a bottle of wine and half a block of cheese in my fridge, and only currently that is customary. It’s bordering on sensible to still believe in love and sleep through my alarms, but there’s a girl I can hear through my walls, and I can’t tell if she’s crying or laughing. Sometimes I've accustomed myself to immense pressure, and it lingers quietly behind me like my shadow, substituting the light from my slightly gaped curtains as a defence mechanism, because there’s nothing insulation cannot cure. I place posters of affirmation around my room, bordered with photobooth strips of my favourite people in one space, and it seems to me then that I might have everything figured out. Possibly.

Someone, oblivious to my existence, climbs up mountains and traces waterfalls, and I’m a silent observer from the other side of a screen; my reflection captures mismatched sleep attire and matted hair and a headache that’s waiting to appear. It’s those mornings when the sun is ashamed, and I’m wallowing with the same self-despair that my future seems nonexistent, the consuming desire to be constantly put together clutching harder onto me until I’m breathless. Why are we desperate to be flawless? Remnants of my night come back to me in circles, boisterous conversation and dancing that is far from normal. Light touches with strangers you’ll never see again, but in that moment it’s enthralling; we’re all buzzed and alive and not worried about being perfect. It appears to me then that I could have everything figured out. Maybe.

It’s become apparent that I’m shortcoming in academia; my writing is slurred when composed with a structure, and my peers’ achievements seem a step higher than my capability can reach. Everyone has connections, and my northern accent carries weight, but nothing more. Somewhere, there’s an echoing ring of regrets and conversations I didn’t want to have, but a knock on the front door brings the remedy of relief, wired with prepared hysterics and obstinate thoughts and everything someone can need. We sit with glossy eyes that are illuminated by hanging fairy lights, scraped together by six girls and a dream, laughter that can be heard from the street as the front room windows are left open despite not meaning to be, and the cheapest bottle from the local premier sits half empty on the table. It’s comical to perceive: my fridge stays empty, and all I can offer is cheese paired with sagacious observations on one of their dilemmas; insufficient at times but currently enough. It’s there, with cramps in my back from sitting too long and the digression of liquid being spilled on the floor, that I realise I’m not supposed to have everything figured out. Indefinitely.

Words by Willow Donnachie, she/her