I’ve told this story before, but it bears repeating.
It is 1984. I am 17. A boy wants to impress me, and I’m so naive I don’t realise he’s expecting a date. Instead, I tell him I’d love to go to see a movie in Leicester Square. He pays not only for rail tickets but for us to see Brazil. I am so affected by the last fifteen minutes there’s no idea how I get from the cinema to Liverpool Street station afterwards. My sleep patterns are disrupted for days. Needless to say, the guy never spoke to me again.
I still remember the moment being aware I was no longer sitting, staring at the screen, walking down to the station platform via stairs long since demolished. It was as if I’d become part of the movie myself. It’s still difficult to watch, because of that reaction, but I force myself to do so every couple of years. It was the moment that made me start imagining story-lines instead of writing essays. The influence of Terry Gilliam in my life is inescapable. That has been written about at length elsewhere.
This place that is now inhabited allows me an honesty that’s been chased for decades. It also helps me understand what it is I actually am, which back in those days simply didn’t exist. Understanding has blossomed from an incredibly complex combination of factors. Today, reminded of this moment, comes acceptance that I’m still waking up, even now. There’s still dreams as yet unfulfilled, but more importantly spaces withing my head that should not be dwelt within for too long.
The capacity for coping needs to be increased, if that’s possible.
Sometimes, there’s a great impression of capability which simply does not exist.
That also ought to be worked on.