Tuesday, 9 September 2008

Moab is certainly not my washpot, more's the pity...

To be as fluent, eloquent, or even as pretty as that Fry man, would be a great delight to me. I am currently reading his autobiography, and it is the most enjoyable work of self I have ever come across. His story-telling and turn of phrase are second to none. And the reason why I wish I had his same skill with the written word is because my simple, if coherent and concise, writing style, do no justice to my best friend, nor to the feelings or experiences of the last hour, let alone week.

--

I can't get away from the fact I'm an arse. I'm an arse with two legs and a torso, and a few other features we shan't mention here, such as arms and a head, but essentially, an arse. I am twenty. Soon to be twenty-one. I often joke that I do not look twenty without a beard, however, it would be more true to say I do not feel twenty, irrespective of facial hair. I still feel like a child, and while there are advantages to be had seeing the world through these childish eyes, there are also considerable cons, such as being scared witless by everything and anything.
I say everything and anything. It is a wide, sweeping generalisation that I cannot provide any solid evidence for. But it is also how I feel, that horrible crutch of feelings and emotion in a time desirous of something more tangible. For instance, the feeling, as I pathetically tried to describe to Tash earlier, of wanting to run away from anything that may potentially, perhaps, one day there could be a chance, vaguely optimistically, may in fact look like it could ever be serious. Now, the obvious leap here is to relationships, and while I do not deny this apparent fear affects such circumstances, it would also seem that the rest of my life is tarred by the same brush. Again, 'the rest of my life' is a huge, rather complex issue, and not one to be swept aside with a simple cliché. Take, for an example, work. When I talk of work, I don't merely mean the menial tasks which I perform to gain a part-time salary, but of the Real World, the big 'Out There', the After You've Finished type of work. What would I like to do, I hear you cry in unison? Well, to be honest, I would love to do doss work in a church. Who wouldn't? And the moment someone has the audacity to remind me of the preparing, the preaching, the pastoring - I want to bolt.
I sincerely hope that in the next year, I grow up a bit. That would be nice. Less arseing about. Less fear. Less trying to sound like Stephen Fry, however long it might take me to write out a few paragraphs. (30 minutes, incidentally. Just in case you were wondering.) Less me. More God. Amen.

1 comment:

Swandive said...

"And the reason why I wish I had his same skill with the written word is because my simple, if coherent and concise, writing style, do no justice to my best friend, nor to the feelings or experiences of the last hour, let alone week."

I've only just read this. I adore you, sweetheart <3