The contents of my.....


It was this time last week, when I began to write my previous week’s blog post, having promised myself that I would begin to write weekly. This is my promise to me, as I work out- publicly, no less – my purpose on this revolving ball. Of course, You scold (You is very much a figment of my imagination) ‘you’re a teacher and your purpose should be tied up alongside that.’  I chuckle, and agree: for all intents and purposes that should be the ticket, but I can’t quite get with that program, there must be more. I don’t really want my funeral to be a eulogy, in front of the 5 people who managed to tolerate me through life,  of how I managed to be kind to a few children and managed to cope through a largely failing (in my opinion) education system.  I always hoped for more.  I blame my childhood; you cannot indoctrinate an impressionable mind with ideas of divine purpose and predestination without inducing a few ‘ideas above your station’.  Which leads me to another thought that has preoccupied me, regarding this weekly input, how far do I go?


I am not going to lie to you, I am not entirely straightforward, I spend many waking moments within thoughts that are never going to be made public. I have learnt from an early age, that my way of thinking is not always appreciated. In my childhood  home, questions were often ‘pat’ answered or discouraged;  and I have lost count of the times where I have expressed a thought, perfectly logical to me, only to be met with a puzzled frown. I don’t really feel comfortable within disapproval, I often offer a version of myself to deflect this, but am not particularly comfortable there either.  Where is the balance? How vulnerable do you make yourself for the sake of weekly ramblings, which whilst may work out my ‘divine’ purpose is basically shit cast in front of strangers.

I guess what I am trying to say is, that I don’t lack content. I am turgid in content – deeply personal and lumpen, rotting away in the pit of my stomach.  The sort of content that needs to be dropped off at the pool, and not aired out in public- the kind of content which would make a great back story to a character in the novel I dream of writing (if only my brain would allow me to think in story and not in disjointed text). Her name would be Sam and he would be on the outskirts of society, his name would be Frank and she would be bold enough to say what he thought, their lives would be colourful and unfettered by the fear of disapproval – only this fact would remain: 5 people would attend their funerals and the eulogies would not ring entirely true.

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