Prologue

Dear ______,

It is now 1:30am on a Saturday night and I am sitting at home on this warm night with nothing much to do except pick up a book, read a little, write a little while in the background, my television is blaring. I'm watching an old television series, one that I watched when I was 10. It makes me feel old but reminds me of times less complicated. Every now and then, I sit at my piano and play a random piece. I am finding myself increasingly drawn to Chopin, not because I feel any particular musical affinity to him over any other composer but his pieces seem to allow me to express a frustration and offer me solace as my hands glide from one end of the keyboard to the other to, no doubt, land on the wrong chord. But apart from Chopin, I am endlessly playing Debussy's Claire de Lune, partly because I have it memorised and partly because the chords and melody do something to me; something that I am as yet unable to explain. It makes me feel sad and consoled at the same time.

In any case, I am writing to you because we seemed to have ceased our correspondence, for whatever reason. I'm writing to vent about my failures. I can't seem to write what I want to write. I can't focus on any particular thing long enough so as to give me a sense of satisfaction and achievement. And I think I am unhappy. I don't really know why I'm feeling this way but it's a feeling that is gnawing at me. I suspect it is partly due to loneliness. It is, after all, a Saturday night and I am sitting at home. I also have to go to work tomorrow and with each day that I have to go to that job, I find myself increasingly dreading the prospect. I would like to leave and do something else. Do you remember I mentioned that there was a job I was thinking of applying for? I haven't applied for it yet. I am hesitating because I don't know if I want to leave the comfort of a familiar and steady job, especially in these turbulent times, to move onto a job that I know nothing about. Of course, my friends say, "Just apply for it anyway and see what happens." I know, in all my pragmatism, that their advice is correct. After all, I feel I have spent too long a time in a single working environment for someone so young (although I am no longer as young as I feel, which is another factor that urges me to apply for the job).

But another reason behind my hesitation is that I have decided that I would like my next travel destination to be Peru. When I was 10, I did a school project on Peru and I've been in love with the country ever since. Do you remember a cartoon series on the ABC called 'The City of Gold'? It was about these two kids on a journey looking for a city that legend says is made of gold. I'm not sure if they were Aztec or Incan children but I loved that series. I do remember something about the Nazca lines so that leads me to believe they were Incan. But I digress. If I do start another job, I'll have to accumulate annual leave all over again, which means my Peruvian adventures will probably have to wait for at least another year. I'm not sure if I want to wait that long. But then again, maybe it's time I grew up and started putting career considerations ahead of leisurely pursuits. After all, we all have to face that moment when we decide to grow up and become adults. I think maybe that this is the moment for me to decide such a thing.

In the meantime, before I make my decision, I went out tonight to Borders to buy Lonely Planet Peru. But while I was there, I also picked up Iris Murdoch's 'The sea, the sea'. I have read about 10 pages of it and it is magnificent. It tells of a retired actor who, from what I've read so far, is writing his memoirs. In it is such sadness and resignation, cloaked in a quiet dignity. I immediately related to him. Is that strange, seeing how he is in the 'recollection in tranquillity' stages in his life yet I am not even thirty? In any case, it is so beautifully and elegantly written - so descriptive and picturesque, lucid yet mysterious at the same time - that it evokes in me feelings of inadequacy. I am not gifted or special in any way. Is this what it means to grow up, to fully realise the reality of one's limitations and the boundaries of possibility, even though we've been told all our lives that we are able to achieve anything to which we set our mind? Such a fallacy!

So yes, I am unhappy. But at least this letter seems to give me a few more possible openings for that essay on the disease of the modern age I've told you I've been trying to write. Now if only I can overcome my lack of concentration and focus on it long enough so that I can complete it.