It is the early hours of the morning, not half a day after beginning this blog. Whilst I was all set to relive my introverted and often drunken exploits in Budapest, Prague, Amsterdam, Northern Spain, Offenbach/Frankurt, Morocco or one of the other trips of recent times, I find I am more concerned with my localised travels, and by that I mean following the contours of the sinewy tumours of tension preventing me from getting some rest.
In the last month, four months since my father’s passing, the depression of my grief seems to have intensified. I have been alone for a fair few years now, but having taken on the responsibility of caring for my father, and, indeed, being very close to my father, I was spared the black hole of loneliness I now find myself having to endure – especially in these, the silent hours. Of course, being alone and loneliness are two different things: you can be lonely in a room full of people. In fact, up until recently, I only ever felt lonely in a room full of people. Now I am lonely in a room full of people and more often than not in a room on my own. But then, this is the result of the passing of my father, in combination with my depression-alcoholism-induced introversion. And we must combat this with distraction – preferably not in the guise of booze.
At times, I find myself drifting off into fantasy lands, when it is at all possible, a land where I am free to roam – and free from the shackles of social inability. Let’s focus for a moment on the roaming land of my imagination. Yes, I see it now: a land without passports, a world where I could pluck a potato from the ground, an apple from a tree, a fish from a river – a land where I am not trespassing, pilfering or need a licence. This is a place where a community lives for its community; where a man, such as my father, who dedicated thousands of hours of his life to the community, isn’t hindered by career politicians. Because the people are out there to make this place better, but the people are out there to hinder them too, living their paper dreams. Of course, the world is the world, and even my imagination prevents me from dreaming this of the land I reside in.
I think perhaps I am mostly inspired to write on this subject by the pertinent words of the author of http://findinglifeinadeath.wordpress.com/. The second paragraph of the article titled What we leave behind.., I found particularly relevant. In having to deal with the legal wranglings of pensions and whether we would have to go through probate etc…, just seemed so meaningless in the light of my father’s death, when, as the author quite rightly points out, it seems more natural to be wondering ‘where we go from here?’ or ‘who we are?’ Being of a certain idealistic sway, and being a slave to my neuroses, I found myself getting very angry at a system that piles on so much pressure at such a time as this. There is a school of thought that suggests this may be a welcome distraction, but then perhaps the patrons of this school are also responisble for the needless complications we all must face.
But, as for myself, I will keep trying to avoid these complications. Hell, it’s hard enough to get some kip as it is.