Did you ever reach ‘that age’ (I quote ‘that age’, as it does not come at a particularly indicative age, but rather it comes for some, earlier than others) when you emphatically decided that now would be the time to start the composition of your very own epic story?
Well it did for me. Embarrassingly enough, I actually recently recollected the existence of my very own composition and by virtue of the magical powers of the World Wide Web, I was able to once again retrieve this less than mediocre piece of ‘art’. (back then I sent all my favourite pictures and poems to myself via email, and for some pernicious, yet slightly appealing reason, Hotmail has not performed the regular routine of periodically deleting these messages- it also seems to me if they too intend to ridicule me.) I play no game at fake modesty when I state that these manuscripts were absolutely appalling- they had all the elements that make up a sleazy American teen drama (girl meets boy- girl falls in love- girl and boy can’t be together- *cue dramatic music*) Nevertheless, it was in finding my very own Romeo and Juliet-esque story that I was actually inspired to give it all another go.
Now, be kind…I know that my story is not at all original (if you do persevere to read my extract you’ll understand precisely what I mean), or in any way complete, but since this piece of work was just me ‘testing the waters’ at my creative writing skills, I thought at the very least it would be amusing, if not at all commendable.
I do, with all sincerity hope that my writing style will not be completely grievous to you.
“The honeycomb succulence of vivacity fuelled my thirst”.
How much of a beautiful piece of literature, an art in itself, it does sound my darling Beatrice- so distinguished, so piercing, so inviting: so unreal. I fear that this is not a story of zest and fervor; it is meekly the story of life, as true and honest as it may be. It is a story of the inevitable thwarted passion that clambers upon one in old age, the caverns of illusions, which imprisons the insubstantial soul and compels it to return to the irrevocable age of youth.
My story is not an extraordinary one; in fact it has no reason to provoke any genuine curiosity in anyone. I came to the same dull and mundane realization in my fifty-seventh year that no one truly knows how to live, and we all die afraid to have tried, lest ineffectiveness indeed discloses to us the ineptness and squandering nature of the human life itself. I write this little admission therefore, perhaps in vain, to enable you to understand why things are the way they are, and why, my darling Beatrice, they must be so.
I guess our story must commence the summer of my relocation to the South of London, for it is there that I was met with the perplexing decision to either join the national fire brigade service, or to work preposterous hours for board and house and continue my substandard education at Southfield community college. When I was faced with this decision, I dismissed, what I was told would be a life of excitement and adventure, for the life of tutelage over fresh, juvenile minds. You may think me foolish, for choosing the path that I did, but then I was, of that age, indeed young and foolish, and up until that point had been fed on the ambrosia of dreams, truly believing deep in my heart that I would be the one to make a change to the world; that I was the exception to every rule. And so, I came full of exuberance and prospect that the life I was living behind in Yorkshire was greatly inferior to the life I was to build for myself in the golden paved roads of London. I arrived at Victoria Station midday, and by 11 past the hour I had recoiled what few things belonged to me from the baggage carrier, and was stepping out into the streets of London. At once my senses were engulfed by the pungent fragrance of street food; my vision diminished by the muted grey tones, in which the whole city seemed to be immersed into one big patch of murkiness, and with some difficulty I dredged my boots through the gritted slime of food discard, attempting to avoid the bottomless potholes dotted almost everywhere. But still, I caught the sound of the distance murmur, the unwearied and unsullied sounds of vitality and strength, and I was invigorated.