Today, tomorrow or one of these days, there will be more of life in me. But right now, as I trudge my way through the cobbled streets of my mind, my boots tapping at the stones, there is a fear, an apprehension and a lone voice. That perhaps I might not recover from these notions that have found home in me. That perhaps all else that I cared for might have to give up on me. Obstinacy then might become my motto and I be it's slave for life.
I have been unable to write for long, you must have noticed. How I used to go on and on on these pages. How there used to be more to say and less to fear. Now there sits a fear unafraid, or should I call it an uneasy possibility. That my words might snap at me one day. Pierce their fangs into the fingers that tend to them and be right in doing so. They might stand upright in front of me and ask, "whither belongeth thou?" What will I ever tell them? To whom will the cowardly me go?
In that it is bliss to have the fearlessness of a child. The blatant ignorance or waving off of reality, responsibility and consequence, even if punishment awaits at the other end. The lack of intent or purpose. The task at hand is then their world, the task in itself the incentive. But one cannot have a realisation and still be a child. It just doesn't happen that way.
