One day I’ll be a mere echo in the memories of other people. I will be gone, frozen in those memories like a memento. An artifice to whatever façade I managed to fool people into believing.
Do I really want my life to be a lie, peddled for that most ignoble and base reason ‘pride’? Do I really want to pretend for everyone so that they’ll like me a smidgen more between them eating and fucking and sleeping?
I’ve been in an odd mood today, because we went over to my sister’s grave and checked on it, and as I always do I spend some time thinking about her, her death, what it would have been like if she had lived. And I thought about that time when I won’t be alive any longer.
O that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon against self-slaughter.
O God! God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
When I came home, I sat down in the sofa. Mark sat down next to me. I reached out to the table and that part fell open in Hamlet by William Shakespeare. Hamlet was always such a heavy thing. I’m convinced it’s a twisted form of love story, because Hamlet wouldn’t do what he did if he didn’t love deeply.
Motivations, they are key to understanding characters. Hamlet loves, and he is denied love because the person he loves is dead, and he is lost into a morose state where agency means the cloak of madness and depression. Like in the above quote.
I love too, so my dark heart is bathing in sunshine, and I am content. Perhaps too content. So, I play these little games with people where I try to make them like me – at least the ones in my real life.
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
I am a chameleon, a shape shifter who switch from form to form depending on how much I want to impress someone. Isn’t this blog another symptom of that? Isn’t the stark personality which emerge when on stage another? Isn’t the bookish Colin which sits for hours lost in whatever world the words on a page in a dead tree conjure up?
Maybe I’m not really smart at all. Maybe I’m deluding myself. Maybe what I should care about is the moments between eating and sleeping and fucking, and let go of everything else. Maybe then, in a hundred years time, the ones who remember that old geezer Colin will think nicely of me. Not with embarrassment. Not with shaking their head thinking, “the silly old git thought he was a writer. Imagine that”.
Sometimes I want to ask mum and dad point-blank, without pretence: would they have preferred if Ellie had lived instead? Would they have preferred if the roles were switched? Would Ellie sit like this, and think these thoughts, and wonder the same thing? What if I ask, and they answer truthfully?
What will my future be like? Will I like it? Will people remember me?
I had a gay panic today. Long after I woke up my hair was an utter mess. It’s grown too long again, and I must apply lots of chemicals. When I don’t, it looks terrible. And I cringe. Maybe there’s a drama gay queen inside of me after all.