It is an absolutely gorgeous evening here and I’m sitting on the Reception of a capitalistic hotel with the door open and the sea breeze just gently fluttering in. The large gold curtains cover the effects but the vase of pink lilies is ever so discreetly waving at me from their perch by the telephone. I can hear the comings and goings in the port, I can hear the occasional car and a strange melange of people getting home and going out; making use of that last bit of their weekend. It is evenings like this which mellow me; there are still some birds awake but the hotel is silent apart from the odd creaking floorboard or slammed door. There’s an indefinable air of contentment; like no matter how many people are arguing all over the island still everything is well right now.
Evenings like this; when I’ve nothing more to do but observe said comings and goings whilst reading ‘The English Patient’, make me feel that really it’s not so bad to be living. I have faults, like everyone else, but I’m probably not inherently evil. And sure I take a blade to myself sometimes but perhaps that’s just what I have to do right now in my life; there are worse things – I could be doing crack or drinking but at the moment I don’t crave either one. Every single person in the world has scars – whether they be visible or not, it just so happens that mine are but they’re surely a testament to what I’ve dealt with?
Nobody has a perfect life; everyone could, at some point, sit down in front of a therapist and say “Well when I was a child…” Is that going to solve anything for them? No of course it isn’t. I’m not saying that everything’s down purely to brain chemistry but blame never got anyone far in their soul. Right now I may be ill, in some abstract way, and there are things I will have to confront. But I have today and I have tomorrow and probably a bunch more days after that with which I can make things better.
This isn’t to say that I’ll never beg someone not to leave me because I’m afraid of that big pack of codeine in the bathroom, or the implements in my wardrobe. There’ll be days, of course, when I’ll cry without any sign of stopping. There’ll be weekends when I slip into a strange idea that alcohol will make it all better. But all of this will pass – seventeen and a half years has to be some sort of proof of that…