Laments etc. | I. Adrift

I.

Wolf Moon hid in a tenebrous winter's night, it was dated back at the beginning of January. She invited K; her best friend from the university; for her birthday party - a hand-built Finnish Sauna situated on top of South Bank Centre, perfect night overlooking the river Thames. She was very eager to have her friends over to celebrate her special night, plus an annual catch up with the new venture.

K couldn't make it, she messaged at the last minute, wrote,

'Baby, baby, I am so sorry. I have never been so sorry in my life. I had an emergency that I needed to deal with so I can't come to your birthday.'

She continued, sent her a picture of a wrapped present,

'Look! I even got you a gift!'

In fact, she desperately needed to talk to K, as she made the call to move out from her then partner's flat. K knew all about it throughout the years - it had finally reached to its closure - people gradually grew out of love with each other, i.e.: the slowest death.

She assumed it was K's usual 'flakiness' so they postponed the meeting on the following Sunday night. That afternoon, she messaged K to double check if the meeting was still on.

But she never replied.

Some of us were searching for her.

It felt like a French exit to a party,

except for the party itself is life.

II.

She was shopping at Boots and a phone call arrived, it was T, she was on the other side of the phone.

'Beth, I am so sorry. I am so so sorry.'

T did the telling, devastating news broke out and she knew already: K took her own life over the weekend. She somehow knew. She became silent, but this time, she had never realised that the silence is so loud, almost deafening.

Her tears and emotions involuntarily spasmed out. Grief just burst out like an attack, she couldn't even stand up, she fell onto the curb.

Screaming and shivering, because darkness was frightening, she was surprised, she was in shell shook.

Uncontrollable tears of grief, because it overwhelmed her. She wasn't there for her. Guilt, remorse, hurt, she wished the clock could turn back, a million times so she could make amend. She didn't know when she demanded K for help and advice, but in fact, K was the one who needed us, but she failed to help her.

So many unanswered questions left behind, and finally, there was the rage. The angst from a selfish act, as if a betrayal.

But how do people process and contextualise these mixed feelings?

She went to the pub where to meet the girls, some of K's friends, to mourn I guess because suddenly, the world feels so alone. On the way on the tube, she couldn't stop crying, that was what she was good at: crying. Because apart from that, she couldn't think of anything to make things better. Her heart was totally broken, and it would never be the same again.

Two days later, a poet friend of hers left a book of selected poetry that he wrote in London Fields Lido for her to find. She was lured out from her grief, of depression. It was the first very few times she came out of the flat.

The universe worked in a mysterious way, she ran into Daisy S., the house owner where we lost our beloved friend K. Exchanged a few dialogues, Daisy introduced her girlfriend to her, and then she continued her journey of the poetry retrieve.

On the pathway towards Lido in London Fields Park as if the path to the nest of spiders, she was conveying her emotions through text form on her mobile phone. The last thing she saw was a grey Vespa, a big black motorcycling glove, it hit her right hand, her knee jerk reflex was to let go of her phone, subsequently was snatched.

It was 10:30 am, broad daylight robbery.

All she was thinking of is the texts and pictures that K sent to her on her birthday sauna. Because she couldn't make it because she had a friend's emergency that she needed to take care of. She said she had never been that sorry in her life. She said she even bought her a birthday present, she took a picture of it and sent to her - white wrapping paper in gold ribbons.

There she wrote:

“‘Dearest Beth,
Happy Birthday Darling!
To many more.

Lots of lots of love,
Your favourite lesbian,
K xxx’”

She screamed whilst chasing after the scooter, she used all of her life to shouted,

'STOP THAT BIKE! STOP THAT BIKE! THAT GUY STOLE MY PHONE!'

She fell onto the ground on Broadway Market. Her pupils dilated, retching, screaming, 'Kirsti! Kirsti!'. She is no superwoman and she couldn't fly either. The Vespa disappeared from her horizon. She lost hope. We all did.

III.

Fortunately, some pedestrians, some of her friends were around to help her. Daisy S. and her girlfriend, she was grateful to have her in the time of need.  One of the pedestrians called the police and ambulance, her friends stayed with her until the ambulance arrived.

Still, she needed to do it. She needed to swim, swimming needs her.

Weltschmerz. The world sadness, the collective sorrow. Accumulated.

Longing. Solace.

The sad pool of tears. To Plunge in also.

One of the few places that her tears could be camouflaged with the water. A little bit salty, submerges into chemical water.

She was bracing herself, the bristling winter wind attacks her pore her skin her vein. She stood by the pool: she wanted all of it, in hoping that to feel something. Something validated and justified. Travelling through the adversity.

A maze. A labyrinth. Going to a very dark place to punch through the wall, momentum equates to the Bride in Kill Bill remembering her training from her master and karate the shit out from the coffin 5 meters underground. She made it in the end. But can we all make it?

IV.

There are sleepless nights I would dig out the Pikachu onesies from the top of my cupboard, and put it on when I am in the bottom of anhedonia. To feel one's presence and warmth surrounding me, to embrace someone who I miss terribly. She lent those onesies to me, but never got around to get it back. Now I inherited it, it then becomes my solace, my consolation to grief.

Every morning the first thing I wake up was missing her. Often when I am washing the dishes whilst looking out of the window. I was missing her. Because missing something is a constant thing, it's like in your bone marrow. A hint, a trace of event or object would remind me of her.

Kirsti. She comes with fervour.
She was simply an amazing human being.

There are moments when I saw a blonde girl on the bus and thought of her. I wanted to text her to tell her that I miss her terribly, but I knew she just won't reply, like that Sunday night. Those little simple things reminded of her, yet death is definite, there is nothing you can save from, mortality, and the remain, the living, doesn't deserve to be happy, until the turquoise jelly in London Fields Lido, the cold embrace.

There I am,  January, drifted to the final year of my twenties like a floating wood. Catching up with fellow swimmers and familiar faces, diving deep conversations in the locker room.

I was welcomed home.

Lido, you’ve been missed.