I enjoy the darkness. I have often revelled in it. It’s a safe space for me, I guess. Brightly lit spaces instantly elicit a harsh reaction; this is probably why I like Scotland – sunlight is simply not the dominant weather pattern.
As a child, I was ever obedient. I did what I was told. I don’t know when it was that I made the switch.I clung to the dark, took a back seat, watching the others go off and do their thing. It was very easy to become the person everyone knows of but nobody actually knows. Oh, there were and are plenty of theories, but perhaps I cultivated that outer shell so much that the inside has begun to rot with negligence, much like the portrait of Dorian Gray.
Maybe that’s why I don’t look as inward as I could. Even this blog – that could appear to be an externalised exploration of internal thoughts and feelings – is reasonably superficial, filled to the brink with passing, fleeting emotions and ideas I become temporarily obsessed with.
The question remains then. Who am I? What lies within the empty shell I am so keen to fill with something? I might react to certain stimuli, but reaction isn’t enough to get you through life – stimuli change or even disappear. Also, as quite a few ideological movements have shown, reactive practice could be quite deadly if not handled appropriately. Reacting on an “let’s see what happens” basis doesn’t take into account people’s desire for consistency. Then again, even the word ” consistency” depends on its context; it could be consistency in someone’s action or thought-process or it could be (in Chemistry) the consistency of a solution.
Of course, using words as a golden standard is ridiculous. But I am a writer. I don’t think that gives me licence to do whatever I want, but it does mean words become important.
And what does all this mean? Fuck knows. Right now, it means I am tiptapping away on my phone, with frozen fingertips and wrapped in two blankets. But then would you believe a writer for saying that? Would you know? Would it even matter?