The Account of a Lifetime

October 27, 2011

To Be Free

Filed under: A day in the life of...,Reflections,Tea. Earl Grey. Hot — xisor @ 8:30 pm

Ultimately, in life, I don’t particularly want riches. I don’t want complete, utter freedom from poverty. I don’t want never-ending sex, I don’t even want a cup of tea.

None of that is singularly important, it seems. Today I’ve spent the day sad that it’s not yet payday. What I want, more’n anything, is a wee bit of freedom and confidence to simply not be stuck here when I’d rather be…over there.

It’d be lovely to jaunt to St Andrews, to head west or east, to take a day or three out to dash off to London or, hell, to briefly escape to Dundee or to Aberdeen.

I don’t need to travel widely to be happy, I’d rather just not be here. Not even ‘here’ in Stirling, but here, metaphorically as well as literally in the house on this couch. That might be due to my feet being cold and it being warmer upstairs.

To put it simply, I want to have a little freedom to mix things up. Though I have that freedom at the moment, I’m not exercising it. I’m…in the doldrums, as it were. Oh for it to be payday, then I could just go to the pub for a quiet pint, or go to grab a coffee. Or even just go out for a nonchalant wander unworried and without the hassle of ‘not having money’ hanging around.

I’ve piles of books to read, I’ve nowhere to read them in comfort that feels my own. My room’s a prison cell, long since filled with irritation and the reminder of restraint and constraint. My companions are loud when they eat and irritating when they speak or grumble, lacking particular insight or vigour in conversation.

I visited a bundle of friends and the weekend and, crucially, it reminded me of how far from it all it seems here. Going out to make friends here shouldn’t be an issue at all, yet here I am: Sat, bored and irritated, and doing bugger all.

My resolution? I’m going to retreat to my earliest forays into proper literary insight and criticism. Or rather, my first proper non-Star Warsy passion, led by the future-spectre of one Leonard Mead.

To enter out into that silence that was the
city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November,
to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to
step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in
pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr.
Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do.

From Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian”. I guess I’ll just have to suck up the worry and vexation of this no-money business. Humbug!

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