It struck me late last night just how expert I have become at constructing walls around myself. Rather than expand upon my own thoughts and feelings, I’m more likely to describe the world around me. The end result is often that I take the reader with me on adventures, but I am largely absent.
I’m not sure if I’m making any sense. Maybe none of this is supposed to make any sense.
I’m listening to “Solsbury Hill” by Peter Gabriel while writing this. I’m not sure why I’m telling you. Now I’ve told you, I’m reluctant to hold a finger down on the backspace key though. It turns out emptying my head directly into the keyboard is difficult. Weighing that which I might find interesting against what I think you might find interesting. I’m grinning now – because I have no idea who you might be.
Perhaps I should imagine you – sitting next to me in a quiet pub. The rain might be falling outside, and we are holed up with a couple of old paperback books for the afternoon. Next to us there is a shelf filled with old board games – chess, draughts, snakes and ladders – each missing a few playing pieces, and their boxes taped together at the corners. Now and again locals wander in from the rain, and order a drink at the bar. The barman has grey hair, and a kind word for everybody.
Maybe I can do this after all. Maybe I can start loosening a few bricks from the walls.