Prelude to a Conversation

Preface:

Don’t believe anything you're told.

 

 

I'm still young, in my twilight years. The vigour with which I write overtakes me constantly. And I speak, desperate for you to hear me. But I still write, and it is for you. They overlap. I do not know the difference.

 

It would barely matter if I had chosen to continue in wilful ignorance, the truth was always stronger than me. But that is because it's my own, a possessive truth. You may misunderstand me; it is not knowledge, no, it would never be knowledge. This was not given to me; it has never belonged to another. Me. But it is important that you know, too. I cannot easily hope to carry on without sharing some of this burden. If not you, I'd spread it where I could. I'd dig and keep digging. This may sound like a romantic notion, but I assure you that it would cause me great pains. Pain, as I'm sure you've experienced, can, at times, be quite valuable, but I fear that it would only distract me now. So if you'll please oblige me - a well-worn soul - I'd like us to spend some time together.

 

My family moved to the country when I was young. Though I'd lived in the city long enough to know that I was a city child. I never understood what made a home. My parent would try to feed me stories of instinct and blood, but it all sounded so alien, so unnatural, so forced. I knew that family meant something, I knew that it was meant to mean something. I think I loved them, I really do, but I never could be sure.

 

Some years later - I couldn't tell you exactly how many, not that it matters - I had moved on quite successfully. Much of the reason for this may have been because I thought that I had a degree of control over my life, and the pieces were in harmony, or they were overlapping so marginally that, with my limited vision, I couldn't tell. As you may have guessed, I did have a job, as much as it makes me wince now. I just ask that you not judge me too harshly, if you'll please, it can be difficult for some to adjust to consciousness. The job is unimportant. The job is unimportant. But you know this, or you wouldn't be here. Do you think that it's foolish to trust a stranger? I'd wager that it is so only in as much as it is to trust anyone. I like you.

 

You and I, we are separate, yes? I can talk to you and trust that I am not merely speaking to myself, yes? Reassurance is necessary in this instance. Please inform me if I begin to make too strong an impression. You and I, we need to remain individuals, for our own sake.

 

I should continue my confession, I know. I can see that I'm boring you, please accept my apology. It has always been a terrible curse of mine, I suppose it stems from an inability to appreciate why someone might find me interesting, despite how much I personally believe otherwise. At least for now, this should benefit us since both possibilities are completely devoid of worth.

 

Success. It came like a wave. I was never surer of my own immortality than when I was atop it, riding blind. You could question me, and I might still be willing to discuss the emotion, the ecstasy. But I can't be sure. Trying times lay between me and it. A wall I've been chipping away at, in vanity.

 

I'd like to be able to tell you that I've learned. That the reason I've taken you aside is to teach you a lesson valuable to your existence. I cannot tell you this. My mind returns to my past far more often than another man might consider healthy. Not that another man has a right to say such a thing, it is my own past after all. No, there is something in your eyes, perhaps; or a softness of features. I want to confess myself. I only hope that you are willing to listen, for what are words that fall on deaf ears?