Inter
15th of February 6.48pm
My beach walks have become a ritual since my wife died. They are something of a tonic, steps that had once come so easy were now stiff and lumbering but nonetheless I finish them feeling rejuvenated and at peace. Peace is a fragile thing; it soon dissipates as the musty silence of my little home begins to prod with its grubby fingers. However, at my age these moments of solace can be worth their weight in gold and my freedom, well that is priceless.
When alone on the shore, it’s a time for the celebrations of a life well spent, the tallying of achievements and amicable truces with missed opportunities. But as though to be maliciously contrary, time alone in the house can hold you prisoner and force the recollection of the small joys you would never feel again and the deep itching that you should have cherished them more. That is why for me the succour of the sea lapping against the shore is the way I would choose to while away the hours as I wait for God.
28th of February 4.02am
Loneliness. Of course you’re never completely alone, whether it be the spider scaling the wall behind you unnoticed or the bird perched on a bough outside your window peering in. These things bring no comfort as the clock strikes four in a darkened house, when sleep will not come and a lifetime of memories dance before you, fading more with each day that passes and just leaving empty space for the more philosophical questions to turn over in your mind then cower from when you come up empty handed. I had my companion and she had come and gone, children grow up and become parents themselves leaving you obsolete, the pitying phone calls begin, the frequency of which diminish over time, every one of them dripping with the boredom of questions that have been asked too many times and answers which never vary. Sometimes in these long silent nights I regret my choice to have children, the life that should have been mine sacrificed and can never be reclaimed, I had not known then what I know now, but then, I always theorise, it probably wouldn’t have made much difference anyway.
1st of March 12.24pm
I just happened to note, because of this entry in fact that another month has passed. I hardly notice them anymore; so many calendars have been committed to history, so many days checked off. The eagerly anticipated events come and go the others in between seemed a drawl, how I wish I could take them back...
10th of March 9.50am
I want so badly to go for a walk today but the effort of getting out of bed alone has deterred me. I can see the house has begun to fall into disrepair. I cannot bring myself to ask for help. I fear drawing attention to myself and what it could mean for me. The image of me being dragged from the house moaning and flailing chills me to the bone on the other. In some ways it would be nice, regular meal times, regular bed times, company, structure and support but my pride always wins by a landslide. I could not become institutionalised like that. I will hold on as long as I can, but it’s not only the house that’s suffering. My diet is lacking and eating habits are certainly not regular enough. I can feel age taking me a little more each day no matter how hard I try to resist it. Maybe I’ll try for a walk a little bit later; it will do me the world of good I’m sure.
11th of March 12.00pm
Today I ran, or rather shuffled, the gauntlet to the shops which I detest. People will stare, they always do. I can feel the eyes on me, the pity, the contempt, but it is I who pity them. They think themselves invincible, the exuberance of their youth will be everlasting. They will succeed me one day, their memory of me in some dusty file in a long forgotten corridor of their mind. And for me, I will know the bliss of oblivion. But for now at least, I remain incumbent.
28th of March 8.45am
The cold has finally begun to lift, my walks are always so much more pleasurable in the moderate temperatures of spring, the light rains cool and refreshing and the warm caress of the sun breaking through the silver clouds. I fancy I shall take a walk today, spring was always my favourite season.
28th of March 10.35am
I have taken my diary with me today, the views here are spectacular, the perfect muse for writing. I am in high spirits for who could ask for anything more? The azure sky is laid out above me, the warmth is unseasonable but not overwhelming and the sea is glittering as far as the eye can see. This is a moment to revel in and to be truly enjoyed alone, not tainted by the irreverent scorn of the usual bathers on the beach. It is an inspiration and such natural beauty makes me feel that the sky is the limit. It is a shame, I feel, that I took up writing at such an age and that my repertoire is such a paltry, malnourished little thing that it consists of only is handful of diary entries, barely a few pages. I could have written about so much more, not just my thoughts but all the ideas wasted, the creativity crushed before it ever got a chance to thrive. Old hands and old minds cannot be coerced into the computer age and do not maintain the deftness for writing endless passages. Fingers ache and joints stiffen, the potential of the hands connecting with the mind once again snuffed out before it can flourish.
2nd of April 7.08am
What do the elderly dream of? In a lot of ways that is a question I cannot even answer for myself. Even when I was young I remember them as an elusive creature, slipping behind the pillow upon waking and disappearing under the bed, gone before I even have a chance to remember. I had heard once that dreams are the mind going at full steam, the workers busy in your head sifting through the endless heaps of information that we take in on a daily basis. So if dreams are the remnant of a night of hard work does the dream then join the mound to be processed again? I find, for me, that it is best to try and not consider these things; they are a much too complex phenomena. I wish I could catch them again, just one, for I cannot remember the last tangible dream I had. Maybe the mountain in my head is spent and the workers have finally gotten a chance to sleep, and maybe dream.
4th of April 10.37pm
It is getting late and I have the intense urge for a cigarette. I have not smoked in a long time having given up when I was 49, urged by my wife, worried for my health, regaling me with horror stories of lungs black with tar and dangerous cells dividing and multiplying unnoticed till it rears its head, shattering the calm of your body. It turned out her fear was realised, but she was the one devoured by it, not me. After her passing the hankering returned, but I refrain. There seems a queer guilt over the prospect of lighting up again, sacrilege against my late wife’s good name. Still it is there, perhaps as a coping mechanism, fascinating that even after all those years it should remain. The body must be a graveyard of habits long forgotten; waiting to smash a decaying hand through the soil to flip the switch that was once so lovingly cared for by nimble fingers covered in smooth pink flesh. How many other zombies lay in the depths, six feet under, slowly digging their way to the surface? I guess I’ll just have to wait and see. I always keep an emergency pack of cigarettes, they grow old and stale, untouched, maybe I should give in and allow myself to be bitten.
5th of April 1.29pm
Today I received one of my perfunctory quarterly calls from my daughter. I could not hide my resentment at the way she slung casual excuses for not visiting and false promises of a next visit that I knew would never come. I sniped at her and threw caution to the wind, casting aspersions of my disappointment at her becoming a “baby machine” with that dim-witted, lout of a boyfriend and then a sprinkling of slanderous remarks about her loosing the baby weight from her latest spawn, a petty victory. Her blubbering at the other end of the line did little to sate me, it merely spurred me on. Who did she think she was? Those smug tones of how wonderful and fulfilling her life was while mine was in its twilight. I had given my life so she could have hers and she did nothing but squander it. The education, the career, the travelling all but dust in the wind. We had done the best job we could. We encouraged her and opened as many doors as possible but she stubbornly slammed them all shut and allowed her life to slip down the gutter and languish in the noxiousness of the gutter. It’s a hard realisation when you admit to yourself that your children have grown up to be nothing like you. You try to stamp it down as the years go by but it grows amorphous and ugly, too big to fit underfoot. I know in some primal way I love her, but in the lonely years as you grow old with only the voices in your head for company, lying to yourself isn’t an easy feat. I shall stop my diatribe now, I know I’ve become a bitter old man, it’s the “self-fulfilling prophecy” as my daughter would say, clearly not understanding its meaning, I don’t know where she picked that up from, maybe something did get in after all.
6th of April 5.59am
It’s early, it will be dawn soon and still I cannot sleep. I’ve been thinking a lot recently, my mind will not shut off. I think I shall reorder my books. They are currently in favourite order, maybe I should alphabetise them? My collection has become my pride and joy. I sometimes gaze upon the rows of books, the spines cracked, some yellow and fragrant, others a clean and smooth white. It fills me with a sense of accomplishment. No, I think I shall order them by colour this time.
6th of April 11.40pm
I am awash in the sickly yellow glow of the streetlights on my usual perch, watching the sea. I don’t usually come out this late but I had to get out of the house. The sea looks so dangerous at night. In the day it’s a silent predator looking glitzy and inviting but at night when people are wrapped in covers waiting for sleep, it shows its true face. As the wind blasts across it, rustling these pages, it almost calls to me, demands me to go to it. I can see myself walking to it, somnambulistic, feeling the crush pushing me away then tugging me closer, a deadly embrace pulling me into the depths, the water becoming a shroud, the darkness closing around me, but I know I could never go to it for I am a coward.
7th of April 11.57pm
I am back here once again. The night is chilly and quiet, the wind nipping at my exposed flesh; I do not mind it much. I feel homage is due and it’s due to this diary. I had read somewhere once that only unhappy people keep diaries... But without them where would we be? A dairy can be a best friend, a sympathetic ear and, at the risk of sounding trite, a saviour. Your hand talks and it listens quietly, understanding. When the loneliness creeps into your heart you just have to write and it can life the lowest of spirits, at least momentarily.
My flow I’m afraid has been broken, a group of lads, the surly looking kind, are breaking the tranquillity and I have a good mind to give those drunkards a piece of my mind, but I won’t. They seem to be heckling me and they are heading this way. All I want is to be left alone.
