‘It’s a strange pathology don’t you think,’ I say, ‘to want to be something other than who you are?’
Wynstan leans forward, places a hand on mine. He has seen my need and he will never shame me for showing it to him. ‘It’s the same old thing, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘All that we are not stares back at all that we are.’
Funder, A. (2011). All That I Am. Melbourne: Penguin Books.
One day soon all that I am is going to stare down all that I am not.
That’s not a New Year’s resolution, although I am resolved to do it. So far I have not gained the upper hand over who I am not, not in the last year nor in any year preceding that. I am trekking in an unexplored yet familiar place, my own vast and muddled interior with no ribbon to mark the finishing line. I don’t know if that will make sense, the journey is a bit like being in the night during the daytime. Then there is the ubiquitous and persistent question ‘Are we there yet?’ Am I there yet? I trust the reply will always be ‘no’, in fact I can’t hear anything else. It is New Years eve and I’m indulging in a kind of remembering of who I am, right at home with paradoxes and polarities, while looking to myself for something more than my old patterns.
I don’t want to be something other than who I am, just more of who I already am. One day soon all that I am is going to stare down all that I am not. My New Year’s cocktail has equal parts of great confusion and awakening awe.