No, I dislike the word brood and anything that stems from it. Too gloomy. Too stern or sad of face, not that during these moments I can actually see my face. There's not a mirror to hand, to check or widen my eyes at as if in surprise that this is what I look like; or that I exist, because sometimes I wonder at this: that I exist at all. That I'm still here. Though there's no reason why I shouldn't be, why I wouldn't be. It's just as the years roll on it seems more astonishing.
If I told you my years, how many I own, you'd laugh. For it's nothing. Almost but not quite four decades. And yet I seem to have reached a stage I don't think I ought to have reached. Even though it developed long ago and has long since reached its maturity. There's still some room for growth, but I think my nature is more or less set now.
I was warned of that. But I didn't take heed. Not really. And sometimes the course of life meant that I couldn't. How do you change the mind anyhow? When it's a case of being, and to be so different again, would be a compromise too far, possibly. Which is The Old Lady in the Van's favourite ending. Possibly. The risk doesn't seem worth it, though Alan Bennett's Miss Shepherd wouldn't have agreed with that. She was always taking them, though some of them might be thought small, too everyday. At least in the years Alan knew her (do I have the right to call him Alan? So presumptuous of me when I only know his writing and not his person). To me, Miss Shepherd's way of living was risky. And uncomfortable, though she appears to have liked (and thrived) on its many discomforts. It was independence, after all, of a sort always at odds with society. She needed to be free, I imagine, of ties. You grow used to what you know. And feel safe in it.
The risks I contemplate seem too endangering. And to contemplate them now also seems unwise, somehow. Others commit them or to them every day, with far less thought. Sometimes without any because they possess more certainty in which paths to follow and which to not, or have more faith that whichever they take will work out. And if it doesn't (and even brings sorrow with it) it's just one more adventure. Whenever I make comparisons with these others (which is something we all do, but should never do) I only ever perceive what they have and what I lack, such as decision-making prowess and action: acting on impulse rather than proceeding with caution and talking themselves out of it. They don't think, they do. Perhaps they don't have a choice; that is the only option. Whereas I would still contest it. Wrestle with it for a bit, and then more than likely do nothing.
If I suddenly chose to follow a more conventional (and more sociable) lifestyle, then I would still exist but on the brink of extinction, if you get my meaning. A front would be put up and the real person would be at the back. I think I do that to some extent anyway, to cope in some situations, but I wouldn't want to become locked-in. Trapped. Hammering on my eyeballs. I guess that's why I have so much sympathy for and with those that are, literally and physically, and who wish to die with dignity. But that's another matter entirely and not up for discussion. Not now. I just didn't want you to think I was using that metaphor lightly. I don't. I live in fear of that struggle, for myself and anyone else it might come to.
And yet, I suppress myself in so many regards. My impulses, when I have them, I don't think are like those had by others. They shouldn't for the most part be acted upon, and if I let them sit they will pass, despite sometimes driving me almost nuts in the process. But when they have naturally dissipated, I think: Thank God I didn't! Which is one of the only moments, if you discount saying grace, I thank God.
I know my regrets – I don't like the word regret either but there we are - and I know my obsessions, my funny ideas. I know my character. Not that I think it's fully formed, but it's more fixed than ever, possibly.
I was warned.
Picture credit: The Fan, c.1919, Marie Laurencin, Tate artworks
All posts published this year were penned during the last.
