Are you a god Christopher? I am. I feel it every hour that I’m out here. When we’re so far from the soup, doing this, caught up in it, I imagine it’s how God feels.
It takes me two days to get over this. Every Monday I am in a black hole. I feel the ordinariness of it all. The quotidian shitfight that I’m supposed to live for the next 40 years.
The tie and collar existence, the dinner on a lap, too tired to fuck or frolic miasma.
That’s why you can’t die on me cobber. This stuff is ours. It’s what we do together. Our enthusiasm is equal. Our dedication would shame so-called athletes. Our bravery is worth a Victoria Cross. I am afraid of nothing except the situations in which we put ourselves every week and we do that for fun. It defines me.
What we are is not back in Sydney, it does not live in the moments that we are with the girls.
What I am is here, now. It is the 12 hours on a Saturday, the three hours at the gym once or twice a week and the minutes and hours that I surf the net or read books that feed this obsession.
My identity, my very life has become indivisible from you, the rock, the wilderness, the aluminium, the nylon, the adrenalin, the fear. The fear.
