Tuesday, 23 June 2009

Wilbur wants to kill himself

I had a wonderful day writing with the beautiful girl. It was one of those really amazing days where every time you look at the clock you're shocked to see how far its slipped forwards without you noticing. And because the sun was in the sky for hours, the day just seemed to last forever. A friend dropped by on us for lunch and another came by in the evening. It was one of those days when you think that if only every day could be like that then there would never be a single problem in your life. It's more than that as well, because while you're in the day you really do feel as though that is the sort of day that you'll have forever. It feels totally normal even though its really spectacularly rare and perfect.

When I got home, I felt like a sit down and a cup of tea before bed because I wasn't ready to let go of the day yet. I flicked on the TV and came across a film that had just started. I was watching it half-heartedly at first - just letting my brain wind down and collapse from the high of the day. But soon I found that I was watching the most startlingly incredible film. I'm sure part of my love of it was that I wasn't expecting anything from it, I was just going to watch a snippet and go to bed. But the film itself is genuinely great. It's called Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself, and the best thing about it was the details. It was so quiet and understated and it was filled with all these quirky touches of dialogue and funny little actions. It was so sad, but genuinely so, there was no exaggeration and no punches pulled. And at the same time it was funny - not a fake laugh-out-loud hilarious, but the funny of the best parts of real life. It was the perfect ending to the day. I already want to watch the film again, but I also think that I might never watch it again - that I'll just keep it firmly tied to this perfect day and never let it become diluted or lost in the wrong mood.

It's been so long since I've had this desperate desire to just live in this one moment for the rest of my life. I'd almost forgotten this feeling could exist. This foolish sense of wishing that I never had to go to sleep and so the day could just go on and on. I remember reading that F. Scott Fitzgerald was once being driven through the streets of town in autumn and he was crying because he knew that the world would never get more beautiful than it was at that exact moment. That's how I feel now. It's a crazy feeling - the sort I only get at night when I'm alone. I even love the intensity of that pathetic feeling - the fabulous melodrama of it.


But I do have to sleep. That most ordinary way of spending a night. The default position.

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