SOME BEINGS are made for living and some beings are made for feeling. I was made to feel. Those who feel like me don’t live. So lost are we in our feelings, that it seems to me, that we inhabit an altogether different world. Not the living world but a world just as real - though realism is a relative concept I think. The world we inhabit, and by we I am of course referring to the ‘feelers’, is it seems, more sensual and savoury than the one existing out there. The world of feelings is fashioned from within and there it remains - pure. The outside world can't touch it and because of this it can assume weird and wonderful forms - like smoke. It is this world, deep down, that I try and illuminate through writing. It is a poor medium I admit but I have no other tools at my disposal. I am a lousy painter, nor can I draw or sing or direct. This is all I have: a set of twenty six letters and a lousy grammar to put some order to the orchestra. The whole world can be contained in language, in part because words, once set free, contain all possibilities for expression and thought.
Let me give you an idea of what it is like to live in this world of feeling. Have you ever travelled alone on a train? If you have than you must have looked out of the window – am I right? And when you looked out of the window were you in another world than the one you were observing through the glass? I am of course referring to thoughts, or to be more precise, being lost in thoughts. This is what it is like for me. I am always looking out of the window – (my eyes) – at a world I don’t notice at all as it flashes by - because I am elsewhere. ‘I am elsewhere’ lets consider this statement for a moment. To someone sitting opposite observing me I am definitely not elsewhere but right in front of them. But that is their view and I beg to differ. I am most certainly not there, despite my physical presence, which I admit serves to keep me tethered there, so to speak; but in actuality, in the reality that I trust and know; that is the reality of my thoughts and feelings, I am elsewhere. It is difficult for me to describe this place where I spend a lot of my time. Perhaps my language is ill-equipped for the task in hand and my fingers too clumsy to lift the pieces of my world for you to see. Perhaps I should give up writing for good? Put a full stop to it all. For if my fingers are too clumsy what is the point? No, I can't give up. What else is there for me to do?
