I’ll try and make this brief. I’m not good at brief. I’m not a lawyer or a doctor – or even, properly, the teacher I’ve earned money as being.
The only thing I’ve ever trained properly in is film, literature and publishing.
My Half Orange hurt me with the truth the other day. She said all the time we’d been married I’d never been successful at anything. That’s twenty-seven years and counting, you know. That brief enough for you? She doesn’t tweet – but she very well could.
She’s right, too.
Looking back at my life, I’ve never managed to make a permanent success of anything I aimed to put my hand to.
Nothing has stayed put; neither has anyone ever really approached me to say: “Well done!”, and meaning it. Few people outside my immediate family trust my motives; my ways of seeing; my desire to get things done for everyone.
This world is not for me. I am not of this world. I don’t lack self-confidence in my skills, my approach; my desire to do good, to spread good, to strive to be good, to love.
I am open, honest; and I work hard to be sincere.
But people I want to work with rarely want to work with me.
People I want to be allowed to dearly love – outside my immediate family, that is – never seem to want to touch my soul in the way I yearn for.
So now …
Right now …
Imagine NO ONE can touch my soul. Imagine NO ONE could touch yours. Imagine how THAT would make you feel …
I was once imprisoned in a hospital for believing I was being followed.
Now we live in a world where practically everyone literally follows tons of other souls. And no one gets put into hospital.
I’m frozen; stuck; sad with my life, with the injustice of my past, with the weariness of my present. But the worst of it all is I have no one to touch my soul. And in a sense, though above I say otherwise, even in my immediate family my soul is not touched as I would wish.
I write stuff which no one reads but I need to write: and it’s a job and a half to get a member of family to do more than reluctantly listen to it being read out.
No chance at all of convincing them they should read it for themselves.
So am I bore in my middle-age? Was I always a bore? Am I that irritating oldish man who people meet at parties and avoid at the next? What to do? How to live? Where to live? Why …?
I do believe in myself; that’s the weirdest thing. I’ve never really lost faith in that. How could I have lasted so long with all my damn-fool wastrel projects, if some inner belief wasn’t still pursuing and constructing within my insides?
But other people never do. I assume other people see me as a threat; need to hurt me somehow so I don’t get that single opportunity to fly as everyone should.
Either that, or my mind is so unbeautiful I’ve no chance of dealing with the really ugly world as it stands; I’ve no way of convincing people that love might also be my right.
Does NO ONE want, then, to touch my soul – to meet me halfway instead of beat me half-dead?
I weep as I realise this may be true, after all. There is no pain so great as to be despised or hated – except the pain that comes of persistently succeeding in making people want to ignore you.
I do think I’m being followed – kind of unhappily too. So what? I’ve thousands of Twitter followers spread between four accounts; about a hundred on Facebook; about another hundred between various blogs I guess – including this one. Not all will be benign; not all will want the best for another.
On the other hand, many will simply be waiting to see hurt befall people – any people; not me in particular … know what I mean? See what I’m saying?
It’s just the way of the world I’m not able to become a part of. I don’t like hurting people nor seeing them get hurt.
And I love so very much being with people; and I love so very much giving them ideas. And I love so very very much the power of such freely exchanged ideas that … fuck it! The ideas the last year of my life has managed to lead up to – the ideas I was going to present to Google, and finally didn’t because they were judged not to be cutting the mustard … well, here they are to be shared with all and sundry.
And they may well be worth sharing, and they may very well be a pile of shit. But either way, whatever very well they are, they’re the very well that represents what I am.
And neither do I think at all they might be a pile of shit.
You don’t want to help me feed my family? You don’t need to see me happy? You can’t find it in yourself to touch my soul at all? (And even if the first and second are too unreasonably much to ask of anyone – as, indeed, fairly speaking, they may well be – the third for sure would allow me to sort out the former two for myself.)
I live in a world, then, where love is not mine – even to imagine.
The only thing I do finally comprehend is that no one WANTS to touch my soul.
Or, at least, the very least, that the one person I’d love to touch my soul in the way I need … well … simply finds themselves unable to do so.
I just want to be loved the way I’d love to be loved. A normal way; nothing special; the kind of things which involve touching and being touched. Body and soul, together in harmony. Touch my body, touch my soul, touch my being – if you can.
But not the way the person I most love finds themselves only capable of.
I really don’t know what to say.
If that’s my future, I’ll have no past.