I have done this before. Others have read my stories, the ones I chose to tell. But they read them when those events still lacked coherence and so they found my tales romantic, moving, humorous and even outrageous. I spent much of today lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking of this from Anaïs Nin: ‘I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.’ My mind lingers on the events of the last decade and the realisation that what is past is not yet history – it is not even dead. For these events live on – they burn in me and I in them – forces whose actions are so delicate and so fleeting I hardly feel them operating until they become things of the ‘past’.
I have returned to the Blogosphere – it has been over two years – to see if I can’t still look at the random-seeming events of my life and insinuate into them some kind of order and significance; to find meaning, perhaps, and coherence; to recognise that the stories are not the stories, but a man’s craving for intensity beyond ‘intelligent survival’, his fear of dullness and his predisposition to a certain unrelenting melancholia that has been the most constant aspect of his life.
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