Dear Life, today you’re pressing down on me. All I want to do is sit quietly in my flat and stare. There you are pressing down on me, on my heart. I have thoughts of giving up, of finally admitting that I don’t have what it takes to be a player in this world. I don’t even know what that means.
What does giving up mean? Perhaps, if the cold, raw truth is uttered, it means this: that I am tired of trying, tired of trying to fit myself – the square peg – into the round hole; that I never ever fit and that my edges are sore from trying.
So giving up means what? Does it mean never writing another word again? Does it mean never writing another story, never publishing anything, never speaking again, never feeling any passion? Does it mean selling all my beloved books and never, ever holding them in my hands again? That’s the pressing down on me.
I don’t know what this life wants from me? There’s the horrific Empire Windrush story in the news, the denying of rights of our beloved friends from Caribbean countries who built Britain to become the place it is today, and yet here is a government who cares nothing for them and pays only lip service to past wrongs with falsity smeared all over their faces.
There’s the chemical attacks in Syria and the insanity of people in power. There is in me a desire to do damage to names like Assad, Trump, Putin and May. But I am powerless. I am nothing. I write little novels and so, the fuck, what.
We talk about our worlds, our lives – make good in your own little world and that’s about all you can do. But then all I can think of today is powerlessness and giving up. My voice is getting weaker and weaker. Surely that must be a reason to get angry, that I am voiceless but a big voice needs a stage and people who want to listen, otherwise it’s just a big voice in a desert.
The characters in my novels are often voiceless, until they find their voices and bring about change. They are never pressed down upon, they never want to give up, they always breathe.