I like being a peacemaker, I like it when the hostages go free and the hostage-taker doesn’t get shot in the face.
More importantly though, it’s made me realise that I’m not relevant anymore – in fact, I’m not sure that I ever was.
I’ve lived too small, my heroes are archaic and my internal compass doesn’t reflect the reality of the world I live in.
It’s been a long time coming, but I need to wake up and understand my limitations – I don’t want to be that tone-deaf screeching contestant auditioning for Idols – you know the one, her face trailed with tears and mascara as she wails:
“But singing is my dream….”
No sir, I don’t want to fool myself into believing that I have the goods when, in truth, people only encourage me because I’m too nice for them to hurt me – or, worse, so they can laugh up their sleeves.
I guess that my real weakness is restraint, but it stems from the notion that words are so very powerful, the sense that words really are vehicles of life and death. It’s not hard to see the difference between calling people “monkey-faced bloggists” and “narcissistic neurotic manipulators” – anyone can see that, right?
And therein lies the real root of my trouble – in these desensitised burnt-out car-wreck times, when mindless once-off encounters define romance and growing old is the only unforgivable sin, in these times I come across as some sort of
half-beige mime – dull and incomprehensible.
Or else as some sort of moralising, repressed, carping harpy who’s confused about everything that’s happening around her.
I’m sorry that we live in days where slow summer evenings, crisp autumn mornings and wide moonpaths across the ocean mean fuck-all – it’s a pity because they won’t be there forever.
I’m sorry that we’ve built a world where holding hands, holding back, holding on and holding out have lost all their value and, sure, I don’t know how to take up a pen a tap you on raw tooth-nerves so that each word brings a fresh jolt of pain – I don’t know how to do that. Mostly I’m sorry that we’re all such wads of scar tissue that it takes shock and pain to make us feel alive.
And it’s important, vitally important, that I know when I’m done. For people, real flesh-and-blood-and-tears-and-laughter people, I’ll get my heart broken twice a day, but it’s hard to know what to do or be in this world.