Fetch

Perhaps, this all began when I was shown that image, of my Fetch. Does that count? An image, I mean. A bit like hearing a recording of a Banshee's Lament. Folklore says you, actually, have to meet your Doppelganger, your double, or Fetch in British Mythology, but all that was written down before the concept of a camera could even be imagined. Indeed, that would have been seen as some infernal instrument that trapped souls. I made a mistake, somewhere between Nadia the Model and my second year in university. In Nottingham? There are any number of moments, of events. Tiny, seemingly, insignificant minutes that I could point to and say There! That was when I died. Nadia, in hindsight, my big mistake, rejecting her. The other yoga girl, a big mistake, for accepting her. When she walked into that class on a mid-week summer evening and smiled her entrapping, soul enwrapping smile, I should have remained closed and turned my face from her. Or was it when I sat within those four small Galway walls? And realised that all the world was beyond those four barriers. All the world, all dreams, hopes, experiences, life, always on the other side, listening to the soft murmer of the shower girl next door and knowing there was no way for me to ever get to the other side of those walls. They were the permanent block that kept me from it all. Everything on one side and me on the other, always other. I am not in this world, I was never meant to be I do not think. Some cosmic mistake. All water under the bridge, except I, too, was swept under and drowned.