I had somewhat of a dualistic nature, you know. On the one hand I loved doing the sort of things teenage boys are supposed to love doing – partying, playing rugby, spending countless hours in pubs achieving various states of drunkenness and sometimes becoming a bit raucous, and engaging in dalliances with attractive teenage girls. But I was just as happy sitting alone with rod and line by a placid lake all day waiting for the float to bob and disappear, investigating bookshops just because I so liked the look and feel of books, and browsing the old public library for hours on dark autumn afternoons, seeking to sit quietly at an old table under a yellow tungsten light bulb for the purpose of erudition and conveyance to other worlds.
It’s all a bit Jekyll and Hyde, isn’t it? And I truly wonder how I got from there to where I am now, a veritable einzelgänger living in a cold old house who spends more time connecting with sheep and cows in the fields than he does with other humans, and who will bestow any amount of fuss on dogs and horses while keeping people mostly at arm’s length. I never drink in public these days, and such alcohol as I consume at home is strictly controlled in the hope of keeping my liver and other bodily functions working as they should.
I do still read though, but only novels these days. I find that they examine the complex nature of the human condition more realistically and less didactically than reference works, and also offer access to the fresh fields of imagination which reference and philosophical books don’t even attempt. I suppose the latter is the one aspect of the teenager still left to me.
And there’s that pronoun again. Another ‘me’ post comes to an end. Introspection is becoming an increasing habit as the years advance and the terminus draws ever closer, and I constantly remind myself that I’m the only one who is interested in the fact.
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