Certain things are true of me and the central one is this: I am not a brave man, not any more. I might be a wise man, but only after the event. My reflections are mainly saved for the rear view mirror: the way ahead is full of chaos and the reason I am moved towards it is I have no choice. I might smile or move my arm, because gestures I still own , but the menu is not mine. I challenged life, and it ate me in a mouthful, chewed me without comment and then forgot the meal.
Those days when I was bravely unaware of consequences are behind me. Now I know the tide is rising, and my print will vanish from this earth. Might I be remembered as an anecdote? ” Did you ever meet him, the man who spoke in parables ? Was he a madman; someone crushed by understanding? I don’t know.”
Those days, which seem a life ago, when I would say, “Shall we turn left or right or offer someone counsel” are memories. Now I am that coated figure, moving in the street, making interest of the changing wind, the closing of a shop, the ending of the day. I am that figure in the corner, who ceased to look at rainbows; whose life reached no conclusion, but just ran out of batteries.
Those days when I could escape the present have left me. I paused in indecision and it filled me,. It owns my mind and coats it with indifference:the weight and sight of it; it’s sheer infinity dissolves agends. You are you and that is all you are. “I can change” I say, but the present has no strategy or interest. Those plans you made so bravely became sandwich wrappers, now discarded as the world returned to order. You, the snack it will not remember.