By Hans Ebert
Perhaps it was once like Sliding Doors and down to fate to see where one might end up with more than a hint of excitement at the prospect. But go through those doors one too many times and there’s the feeling that the thrill is gone and even B.B. King has put his guitar down and moved on.
Moving on. It’s an interesting concept comprising two words that can mean so much, but are often reduced to a meaningless PS in a relationship that was long over before the Fat Lady even cleared her throat.
Whereas there was a time when these two words would just wash over me, these days I have been asking those who mention that they’ve either “moved on” or are in the process of “moving on”, where exactly they are going and where exactly is that final destination.
Women, especially, are “moving on”, but seldom do, because despite the exterior bravado, it’s false for the simple reason that they either cannot or are too committed to keeping up pretences and too scared to break away. There’s a song in there somewhere. I’m just stuck on how it all ends and if the twist is that after truly moving on, there’s a need to move back to where and when it mattered for all the right reasons, and with nothing about doing the maths to find that financial safety net and which could be described as The New Love. Did you get all that?
Sorry, but I’m starting to laugh as I don’t know whether it’s this preoccupation with social media, or losing track of time management or unable to see that train heading towards us, yet refusing to move away, but we seem to be surrounded by complete goofiness.
Recently, I have taken a few ladies out and have listened to what they had to say. Really listened. And maybe, the onus is on me, but trying to make sense of it all was not only draining, but I just wasn’t in the mood for dessert.
Every woman taken out was in a relationship with another man, but, yes, they were ready to, well, move on. Were they saying they wanted to move on with me? No idea. Would I want any of them to move on and move in with me? If we could test drive the situation and exchange keys after, let’s say, a month, maybe. But then for me, Maybe is not exactly moving on. It’s playing for time and it’s those Mind Games Lennon sang about, but without the wit and the intellect and just not giving two fucks. We give two fucks about way too much that isn’t even worth one fuck.
We pretend to worry about how others are doing as a defence mechanism against facing and figuring out our own problems.
By 6pm, and if we dare to look back at what we have accomplished since we woke up, it’s probably not a helluva lot other than having two cups of yogurt, having a nap, waking up and sharing some music with a few friends on WhatsApp (now that I have escaped again from Facebook), and wondering what the latest version of Moving On has in mind after her afternoon of shopping and whether whatever it is will rock my world or just dumb down the thud of boredom that’s stifling it. Who knows? And that’s the problem.
Everyone is great at imparting text book wisdom and Google advice, but it’s all very Strawberry Fields, and where nothing is real and there’s nothing to get hung up about. It’s all very vanilla without even the pistachio nuts and about accepting and tolerating crap and the company of fools and horses and sycophants. It’s living a lie in an unreal world. We deserve better. We need to move on. Really.
I’m now about to leave the airport lounge and board my flight. Sometimes, one needs to say, enough is enough. This isn’t for me, you’re not for me, and we’re not going anywhere by moving on except for standing still.