By Sacha Kyle
My name will remind you of someone you already know. If I tell you what it is, you will look at me and most likely respond in one of three ways. Either your jaw will drop open and you will suck in a little gasp of air as you say defiantly ‘That’s the name of my…’ Or you will look at me blankly, your skin going a little paler than usual and you won’t say anything, but I’ll know that you’ll be thinking some very undesirable thoughts. Or finally, and this is the most common, you will stop whatever you are doing in a sudden sort of way, your jaw will drop open, you will gasp the air like a goldfish and appear a little paler than usual, and you will say ‘Oh, that name, that name, for some reason it sounds awfully familiar, I don’t know why, but its on the tip of my tongue, the edge of my memory’.
For the above reasons I have mentioned, I am not going to announce my name to you. You can just think of me as a nameless being with a steady pulse. A heart. A living heart. A dancing heart. This fleshy red organ of mine will also remind you of someone you already know. It has loved and it has lost. It has lived and it has laughed. It has limped and it has lied. It has shed tears and skin and sadness and thoughts like a caterpillar and grown whole again like a butterfly. It has flown into happiness and wavered into worry like a ship crossing the rough seas, and been tested like the fragile wings of a bird being pressed by the wind. But most of all, it has remained beating, and for this I am thankful.
The very person that I have become took shape during the collision of two distant planets – this act in itself will remind you of someone you already know. Somewhere inside of me the wires soldered themselves together, like a product on a factory conveyor belt, adjusting itself with each new environment. Everything that you saw, made you who you were, and everything that went unsung, unheard, unlived did the same. We begin mashed together like a recipe in a mixing bowl, first separate and lumpy until quickly becoming a smooth mixture with all of our final ingredients blended together. All of you, and all of I, and everyone we know, blended together. A blending that is in flux like the seasons, cold and blustery, warm and forgiving, refreshing and crisp, dark and brooding.
My colours, soft yellows and smudged greens will blot into your memory and paint the thoughts of others you have encountered. They will remind you of dewy spring flowers and freshly cut grass that tickles the underside of your nose. They will remind you of blue lagoon lakes and night skies that dazzle with tiny yellow stars. The way we look in towards each other, will remind you of lovers past and heartbeats and names and letters written in pencil on the inside cover of a book. The clouds and the heads in the clouds and the falling birds and the fluorescent moon will cloud your memory in a way that is good. And the earth and the ground and the dust from where we were born will make you ask once, and then ask again. The trees and the rocks and the land will sit around your edges to form landscapes that you will remember and shift and return to. The stencilled faces will change in your mind daily and appear full of something that’s difficult to explain – though by thinking of them you will still feel the pain and strength and loss all at once. And you will always return to me and see me for me, and that is odd to some, but not to most. I will feel for you, and you for I, and we will be in this together – for that I am sure.
Our suitcase will be packed with clothes and objects and shoes that fit us just the same, and there will be stickers peeling on the front to remind us of where we have travelled. Our laughter will make you hear the kind of music that wasn’t ever there, until you thought of us in that very moment and you felt the melody drifting in through the gaps in your windows. And the rain, mostly the rain that we felt together will remind you of someone you already know. Especially the way it sits contained, deep and full, filling the gutters above the front door. And the way it settles after a rainstorm sploshing around, swamped by twisted twigs and leaves and the occasional drowned mouse. The way it drips down slowly sounding like a broken tap or a sand timer onto the porch with a tippety tip tip tip sort of noise. You will recall the way the wind batters against the windows when you’re having a hot bath and you can feel the cold outside just by hearing it. You will remember the way the middle three steps of the stairs creak in a certain place usually at night when you’re trying to be quiet. And this will remind you of that quiet place, the place in between your deepest of sleeps and being wide-awake. You will remember fevered thoughts, fevered dreams, the heat and the orange of the pink sunset settling into itself in the distance. And whenever you are reminded about someone that you already know you will respond with the words, I’ve enjoyed my life, I know it well.