In the year 2000 I would turn 27 – a distant prospect, I pondered, while lying in bed, afraid. Counting the years that lay ahead, I knew I would be alive for many years to come. But somehow, counting the years that separated me from death, I forgot the years I spent living. Forgot to live. Never knew how to live; could only exist within rituals, following my own strict rules, thinking in patterns. Count the number of beans I put on my plate, be afraid of people, feel small and insignificant. Punish myself. So many years later, I’m still the frightened child I used to be.
It’s not my fault I grew up; time did that. I merely sat and counted.
I have been 27 for almost 25 years now. I no longer count the years, aware that I am more than halfway there. Death is no longer a somber abstraction, or maybe it always will be. Many passages of enlightenment have come and gone, but no god ever stayed – they all leave in the end.
The only one who never left was me. I held on, conquered the darkness, and blazed through the light.
Now I find myself in the shade. It’s peaceful here. You are never far. Somehow, you always know what I’m about to say. When fear grips me, you say the magic words. You are like a dog in human form – kind and faithful, warm and fierce. Innocent and full of trust.
Never let me go
There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one
Kazuo Ishiguro, ‘Never let me go’