Every day I wake and am flooded with
optimism and intrigued not to say excited by the phenomenon of being alive. I
know this is wrong and that I should adopt a more pessimistic demeanour
consonant with the human condition, its woes and its undeniable limitations and
the ultimate limitation that its term will, one day, be truncated. However, all
my attempts to adopt a suitably lugubrious mien are sabotaged by a spirit at
work within me which is allied to the endlessly renewing biological rhythms
secretly at play, also within me. As an antidote to this foolish and wholly
unjustified optimism my Doctor has prescribed me regular readings of Samuel
Beckett which I have tried, oh how I have tried, with diligence and application
but always to no avail. Just when I think I have achieved the requisite and
proper pessimism and helplessness the biological and Circadian rhythms, between
my being and which not even a cigarette paper might be inserted, renew and
assert themselves in a way which spells disaster to pessimism and sees me indulging anew in hopeful and purposeful activity. I find my heart
continuing to beat rudely, and my breathing controlled by my medulla oblongata
and my autonomic nervous system, by neither of which I am consulted on the
matter of its continuation. I am a clock which has been wound up and set in
motion by a dispassionate clockmaker who cares little for the consequences of
his action. Hunger and thirst spur me on to enjoy the pleasures of the mouth
and stomach, my digestive system functions undirected by me and sexual arousal
waxes and wanes unbidden and leads to a renewal of love which has a certain
inevitability about it. My desire for warmth, shelter and comfort send me gaily
to work each day. Weariness sends me to sleep, sleep from which I arise
refreshed and invigorated in spite of myself. Each time, then, I seek to drown
myself in oblivion, it seems nature is intent on casting me afresh on a shore
of yellow sands bathed in sunshine on which I happily disport myself. Sooner or
later, exhausted by my struggles to look on the dark side I yield and accept
the disposition towards cheerfulness which prevails in me in spite of my
knowledge, shared with all human kind, that my days are limited and that my
flesh may be afflicted with a wide gamut of ills. In short the life in me is
irrepressible and will have it no other way than that I should greet the access
of the world’s stimuli to my uniquely calibrated set of senses with a smile.
For this I can only apologise. Forces at work within and beyond my control make it so. In spite of the fact that I do little exercise endorphins, it
seems, continue to insist on flooding my system with an insulting carelessness
as to the results. I remain irritatingly and obscenely, perhaps offensively,
cheerful. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I know that I sin against my times but the flesh is weak........
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