Where do we end?
We may, all of us, be finite but in what way? Are we vessels waiting to be filled? Rubber bands stretched to our limits? Oceans filled with wild, untamed creatures? Water balloons fit to burst? Christmas stockings pulling at the seams from crap bought at the local two dollar shop?
We are filled, stuffed full of our experiences, from buying the groceries to having our hearts broken; from dealing with little Timmy’s tantrums to dealing with little Timmy’s dad’s tantrums, we are inundated with events, all of which have some form of emotional resonance. We absorb these events, whether we are aware of it or not, we inhale the emotions of every encounter we have and eventually, we feel full. We’re stubborn and resilient creatures, us artists formerly known as Homo Erectus (which, by the way, will be my porn name if I ever choose to grace the industry with my lanky presence). As a species we have survived disease, nature, catastrophe, the evolution process and the exploding of volcanoes by crazed aliens 75 million years ago (for any Scientologists who might be among us). We all have a little bit of Chuck Norris in us, the grizzled determination of a minuscule, bearded chap who refuses to die, and even though we sometimes reach our emotional, limits, we continue.
Bills need to be paid. Kids need to be tended to. Pets need to be fed. Little Timmy’s dad needs to be committed. You know, the usual stuff.
But these emotions, these feelings which we are filled with, which are crammed into our system find their way out, regardless of our best wishes. Like an Adam Sandler film. We find ourselves screaming at the television. We find ourselves screaming at the kids. We find ourselves screaming in the town centre without pants on. We find ourselves screaming. Period. That scream takes different forms. We drink, we fuck, we play sports, we cheat, we dance, we argue, we paint, we run, we take, we get high… we do anything but actually feel.
Your emotions are a child; a being without limit, without structure or discipline which needs tending to. They’re like a sweeter, less destructive version of Godzilla. And you are Tokyo. Without proper care and instruction they will run rampant and find their way into your world through the cracks they form in your very being. Tend to your Godzilla. Take the time to sit with it, question it, console it, comfort it. Offer it yourself. Offer it your time.
You know that hitting kids to stop them crying doesn’t work, right? If you ignore them long enough, they might stop crying, but they’ll have learnt a terrible lesson; their feelings aren’t respected. That’s your feelings, that is. That’s how Godzilla feels.
Let it breathe. Let it happen. All those feelings. Let them be.
It hurts, sure, but so does the morning after drinking your body weight in Passion Pop. Emotions aren’t bad things, not anything to be afraid of. They’re just missives from your soul telling you how you’re doing. Listen to them. Look at what happened to Richie Rich when he didn’t listen to his soul. He turned into Donald Trump. NO one wants that for themselves.
Where do we end? We don’t.
We are infinite. We’ve just got to listen once in awhile. To ourselves.
Long may Godzilla reign.