Monologues

There have been quite a few lately, in my head, rehearsing my side of conversations I might potentially have with friends, colleagues, anyone really. Conversations about me and my life, past, present and future, who I am, how I've come to be that person, how that 'who and how' relates to the world at large. There was a good example this morning, as I was in the shower getting ready to go to work. My mind found its way to DBJ, from my first sight of him as a pretty nine year old passing my former Cornish workplace with his family through to the last few times I saw him before my move to my present job, when he was 13, going on 14, and, in my eyes, the most beautiful boy in the history of the world. How I might describe him, how I could explain my reactions to him, in so far as I understand them myself. Words are always inadequate for such descriptions and explanations, it seems to me, because they are, for the reader, if not the writer, disconnected from the emotions of the real situation. How I saw him, the feelings he engendered, are unique to me. And in a more general sense, if you've never loved a boy, how can you possibly understand how a boylover feels? We're all prisoners of our own psyches, ultimately unable, by definition, to see the world through anyone's eyes but our own. Always, as Petra says in The Chrysalids, 'one at a times'. Trapped forever in a well of loneliness.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B