Apres

I have never been a giggling, girlish sort, at least not since my return from Treve so many years passed. The romantic notions of a child were culled from my soul under great-grandmother's stern tutelage. She replaced such nonsense with a myopic reality that has guided my life. Some might call it hyper-vigilance, this indefatigable, externally effortless decorum.

That is not to say that I cannot or do not enjoy life. I am constantly in search of, when the Ahns of monotonous responsibility allow, diversion. My wit is dark and seems to spring out of thin air at times. Abu has often accused me of being too serious as if that were a sin against nature. Contrary to popular belief, I can laugh and frolic with the most frivolous men and women, though I confess I bore with such easily. Give me an earnest debate, a game of badinage, a challenge to my intellect and I am in my element. It is doubtful I would ever be labeled effervescent, but under the right circumstances, I allow myself the luxury of the vivacious spirit that must, perforce, often remain tamed and silent.

Thus I find myself bewildered of late. Rare have been the moments I have wallowed in puerile fascination; and more uncommon the times I have squandered in libertine contemplation. One would not be human if one never faced one's most basic nature, the organic requisite to seek the inverse of oneself, some might say the completion of oneself.

A single unguarded moment can leave an indelible mark. Introspection ignites the fight or flight response in my brain. Commanding synapses urge my thoughts in other directions, my feet back to the self-righteous path. But my soul disobeys the nagging voice in my mind, preferring to bask in unbridled fervor. Inevitably I divest myself from the petty melodrama best left to the casteless; yet it haunts the edges of my consciousness like a predator.

I hear the drizzle of the rain
like a memory it falls
soft and warm continuing
tapping on my roof and walls

From Kathy's Song by Paul Simon (c) 1966