many things.
I’m not going to explain again about how the grey life we exist and perpetuate drains us from the amazement of the life we could lead or have led. I’m not going to tell you that Ive been drained by the lack of fascination I have with life at home, or how we focus on capital or material growth and property when the rest of the larger world focus on only tomorrow and how much they love whomever might be by their side.
I have fantastic close friends who are enthralled - or so they pretend for my benefit (!) - by the myriad of stories I tell of people and events Ive both met and seen.
They tell me that inspiration is brought by modern means in the 1970s slide show and that they believe there is bravery in my decisions. Part of which they share, through me. I think that without such comfort I would have failed long ago in a way that would bring such shame. I’m enthralled they have the courage to tell me what they believe to be true and by these means i share their fascination and re-live the events through them, through me, through them.
I want to write my story, as many of you know and yet I wonder how valid this story might be. How it might be interesting or not, how it might be self funded into print through vanity publishing and a lack of public interest and while on the road, in my mind, in isolation and without converse, my stories hold a merit of physical adventure and metaphysical or emotion beguile.
Once home the story soon lost its flavour and my senses tell me through the ordinary and shadowed edges of our mundane life that its not worthy of either the effort to retell to record or to put into print.
My mind wanders into the regions of others lives, of the people I have met and of those stories I have read, to reinforce this belief that I am not worthy and my story is less important than theirs. A friend in a mountain village whose life is so difficult and yet perpetuates is worthy. Sam Manicoms adventures or Ted Simons years of travel are worthy. Adventures are long events are they not?
And yet.
It occurs as a passing thought, a flighty transient imagination that perhaps my un-succinct miss-match of emotions and reality, my ordeals, my life and my personal battles are fought both by me and by you. An adventure is whatever you choose it to be. Whilst our daydreaming lives hold adventures, so does a descriptive exciting journey through rush hour traffic in Nottingham. It could be held in the description and the telling and not in the size, scale and longevity of the expedition.
Unusual, yes, sometimes I can be very unusual and I don’t shy from this, but also usual and commonplace, a factor of your very lives re lived through me and documented, also makes me and you, a part of events and the life I have hitherto had and will continue to enjoy.
I regret being a poor life companion. I realise now that I have been a terrible companion for those who have chosen to be with me. I also realise I have no ‘women’ skills. If only! I thought before my trip that to be unable to communicate with women and to be unable to draw them into my sexual gravitational field was a failing of me as a male. It made me less of a man.
I choose to believe that this now only makes me more individual than my commonplace piers and whilst I do wish to have this skill, it would not suit who I am, nor whom i want to be in the future.
I have recently somehow made a terrible mistake with a girl, i was confused by responses, she was confused by comments and together, life didn’t end in a rose garden and picket fence. This is what was supposed to happen, it has led to a learning experience of some sort that my sleepy and dreaming mind has yet to work out.
So, I now believe in love.
Regardless of my adamant denials.
Regardless of my precious beliefs.
Regardless of upbringing and indoctrinations
I believe in love.
I believe we are not supposed to be alone throughout our life, that to share is to enjoy, to argue is to appreciate both the human and the emotion.
Why would we go to see a sunset deep in the desert if their is no one to talk to about it?
Why would we run from Police if later we have no one to laugh with about it?
Why would we sleep in the mountains on rough ground if we didn’t try to sleep ontop of someone else because it made us comfortable?
Why would we endure unless we hope to be loved and have complete and unequivocal love in return?
Why?
So I want to feel.
I no longer believe love is the fantasy of a poor 14th Century poet addressing the masses to sell his works. I do not believe love is Hallmark cards and holiday events.
I once, retrospectively, had love that was fluid and real and held in my hand, time and nonchalant existencebecame the enemy of love as cynical people become the enemy and destroyers of faith. This fluid in my grasp gradually evaporated to become steam, visible but surrounding while present, then this developed the characteristics of a fog and slowly, very slowly, it became a mist until all I was left with was a distance memory of what once was. It had become a part of the scenario over a hill top I saw others had and yet did not associate myself with.
I want to feel in love, I want to overdose on it and have more than my fair share, to indulge myself and to immerse myself in. I want to be honest, straightforward even to the extent of pain, in order that by taking the chance I might have a little of the enigma I have seen others enjoy, hate, be tortured by and yet still feel with such heat and passion that the glow warms you by its presence. I’m not going to love in an English way but rather in a jump in and swim, who cares who stands next to you and judges you despicable to the prudes of society kind of way.
I do however have a problem.
Im still alone. Positive in my conviction for what I believe is the first time in my life, but alone.
Tomorrow always comes and is always different to today. My convictions combined with life will deliver my expectations but patience is a difficult and time consuming task!
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