“Excuse me? Can I ask you? Sorry, I know it’s random, on a Wednesday morning, outside of a Whole Foods, in Stokey, but do you by any chance like pasta?” Perplexed, with a wry frown, the morning commuter’s pace would slow down, just enough time for them to eventually respond with a suspicious “yes”, then quickly, “Why?” For some reason, the why packs a serious gut-wrenching punch. A heavy-laden tone of curiosity a sniffer dog could only understand would set the discomfort of the usual unfolding scene. Or, even better, they would completely ignore your awkward call for connection, ensuing in what could only be described as your heart being ripped out centre stage and stomped on with a grotesquely shaped foot, for some reason, spraying blood all over passers-by, the thud heard a mile wide, notifying witnesses of your absurd stupidity and existence.

That’s been my life as of late. If lately could be summed up in a 10-year chapter. With bits and bobs thrown my way throughout, cruel enough to make me believe that this chapter was over. But here I am, still.

I’ve learned a lot about the cruelty of life. And not to sound too morose about it all. That is, Dear Reader, not the depressing, soul-draining energy I wish to beam your way. That would be unfair. And yes, cruelty is highly subjective to the perceiver. So, to be specific: I had a very free childhood. A mountain. Trees to climb. A very salty sea and a sunshine that turned my Irish-soaked, Scottish-laden skin a sore browny-red.

Freedom is not an uncommon adjective we use to describe childhoods, I’ll grant that. But I really should emphasise, I really was free. Mum would explain how she would wake up some mornings to old Spanish ladies belting at the top of their crooked voices because her barely-out-of-nappies toddler was halfway down the street, heading into Ibiza Old Town, perhaps to catch the tail end of the rave at Pacha, or perhaps it was to fetch my Mum from there. We will never know. Or times when Dad would explain in great detail how they secured and tied ropes around my crib, so as to stop me from escaping. I just couldn’t stand being still and locked into just one thing or way of being. I think that’s why acting always had a calling. Because I always wanted to experience what it’s like, just over there.

Selling pasta, or slinging flowers, or that previous version of me zooming around England in a Zipcar paid for by venture capitalist investors to hustle food into dog bowls. The goal was to take over the fresh doggo food world with, what’s it called, butternut squash? It was a funny time. And memories of that version of me echo that same feeling of what it felt like to be free. Mind you, that version wasn’t perfect in many ways. Two years of solitude and rabbit-hole overthinking gives one perspective, once you reach the other side, of course. And there are regrets, wishing I would have treated people better. But the dog food: we earned stupidly good money, got to hang out with my actor folk, and even made some deeper connections along the way. It all shaped me. And although pain exists in reminiscent evenings, I’m glad I was around to experience those times with those people.

I think turning 35 has a lot to do with these words existing. And perhaps that journey across, and how it all unfolded, has made me feel very peculiar and quite unsteady on my feet. I know now, because I’m ‘old’, that when the future seems particularly unclear, a form of change is bounding over the hills. Surely not a midlife crisis? If it is, I’m seriously premature. Or life really does end at 70. Who knew? That freedom I felt in those summer event years, making a bunch of cash, or that childlike wonderment I used to have, now acts as a version of me I don’t recognise. I see that person reflected back at me, but he feels more like a close brother who, if asked, you could describe in immense detail and clarity. You love him, but ultimately, he is separate from you. I catch myself sometimes in hysterics at some brain-rotting Instagram reel, but noticing that I was having fun! Then, slam! My smile would quickly wipe itself away, back to neutral. “No, no, you stupid creature, that’s not for you!” the devil’s pricked gnarled finger would say with a crushing snap!.

Anyway, I was with this insufferable pasta friend of mine on Church Street, and by insufferable I mean: a kind, honest soul who’s an absolute charm to be in the company of. It’s also unbelievably fun to rip into each other, which was 95% of our day today, now bleeding through into written evidence. Anyway there I was, outside of the Whole Foods on Church Street, of all places. It holds a sentimental value I can’t explain right now, and I catch my reflection on that bus staring back at me. Not on a poster, mind you. I know, fame is fickle. I could just about make out my outline. My face was covered by a dark shadow, which would have just reflected confusion back at me anyway, hardly necessary. But the 25 seconds the bus stood idling and polluting our lungs was all I needed to realise that guy doesn’t exist anymore. Like matter scattered across an infinite universe. Where something once was, now in its place, just dust. I think of this blue giant we live on and how in a billion years, after our closest star explodes and the black hole at the centre of our galaxy swallows it all up. What will that space where Earth once stood feel like? All of that time? All of those stories, experiences, unbearable feelings of love and lust? Will whoever or whatever stands in that place feel any of it? Or will it just look like, like the glass reflection in front of me? Just an unexplainable feeling of something that once stood.

I know, before you think I’ve gone loopy here and call Inspector Gadget, hold on. Let me clarify: In that moment, I understood that I didn’t recognise the person staring back at me because, for the first time, I let the image of who I was supposed to become go and replaced it with nothing, with an unknown. Change is part of it, and we never know what’s around the corner however much we try and hold on to someone or something. I just know I have to leave all of it behind. It’s been holding me up at shore, half-anchored.

I think life is less about freedom, if 35 years is merit of any wisdom, and more about truth. And I can’t help but feel like Alexander Supertramp from Into the Wild when he said: “I’m going to paraphrase Thoreau here… rather than love, than money, than faith, than fame, than fairness… give me truth.” God, how good the truth must feel. Elements of all have existed, but never that honest, crystalline blissful truth. Perhaps because it’s rare, or perhaps because our hands splash around in the water, trying to hold on to it like silly, dumbfounded beasts, only to turn it all into a cloudy, muddy mess.

And we’re all just beautiful buffoons, really, in our very own desert, rushing back with hands full of sand, thinking it’s gold.

That’s all any of this is.

(Photo: My own, India 2023)