Fear must have its uses as we are trapped here, in this skin, in this cage, in this dark alley.
Time passes, the plot thickens along with the fog – a real pea-souper – slightly thinner than mushy peas I suppose but all the same it is avowedly pea soup based on a ham stock made from that bone – let’s call it a thigh bone. From which all the ham has been gnawed. By whom you ask. Well not me.
By rats at least that’s how it looked to me and while we are on the subject when you say thigh bone, do you mean human thigh?
Who cares! Fear has its uses.
Uses? Well . . . Panic . . . Paralysis . . . Flight, fight . . . But of course on this occasion we are trapped here because the enemy are too powerful – whoever they are, we don’t know, we can’t even guess, we just know that they are an evil bunch who wish us a bad end – and they are fast. Young and fast.
Whereas, well what shall I say, the years have passed, slipping away towards those blue remembered hills. And, to say the least, we are somewhat slower than we used to be.
But like the man says, fear drops away, drops away into indifference perhaps. Who gives a damn? It’s of no consequence.
Though even as I put that into words, it begins to shift again. I care. I care whether I live or die.
I care how I die even if I have little control over the when or the how.
Selfhood has a certain rickety sounding construction as though the letter of doom is already in the post. Washed away in the flood. Painstakingly reconstructed with whatever materials are to hand. Sticks and mud. Bits of plastic extrusions. Metal if we can find it, though the competition is tough from the scowling faces of those crowded near the top of the pile. Especially aluminium, favoured for its lightness and strength. Some coils of copper wire and old batteries reconstituted for their new use.
Good as new, mate. Fear and pain and business as usual.
I will paint myself with lichen, drape myself with extravagant purple and joyfully skip these last thousands of miles. There’s a long way to go, much to do and not a sod out there who can tell me how long we have.
But apparently we must be in good voice because the word comes down the line that we have to sing; like it’s some stupendous opera and I have some small walk-on role to perform though, of course they are not telling me what it is exactly. Don’t worry, have no fear, it will all become clear round the next bend in the road. No expense will be spared there will be water spouts and fire-breathing dragons, snakes in our beds and a chorus of angels. And no doubt trumpets will announce the new dawn.