Old Men

I was taught by old men; old men surrounded me. They spoke of truth tables and chalk covered their backs and I thought: I am not as bright as they are. I thought I had come up against the roof of my intelligence. I’ve gone as far as I can, I said to myself, and then: their world is not mine. I sold my books; the sky closed over me. If I couldn’t go up, I would have to move sideways – but what course was open to me?

I met versions of the same old men in the companies where I worked. They’d had their chance, spread their wings, coasted gently as wages increased and house prices increased and their permanent jobs ran on and up in the world they floated. I thought: I am not like them. Where can I move? Falling from that world, crawling along in unemployment, I went to the Job Centre, and there were more old men. I said: I’ll do anything, and they said, anything? and sent me on a course to prepare me for anything.

The sky had closed over me and a circle had been drawn around me. Old men were everywhere. And when I returned to the university? The same old men, only I was learning they were not so bright. I had thought, I am hollow, and now I knew they were hollow. I thought I carried a void at my heart and I knew that they, too, bore the same void. We are dead men, I said to myself, and the world is hollow. They are dead, but they don’t know it; I am dead, and know it well.

I wrote a book and it looked up at me and said, everything finishes with me. You do not believe in me, said the book. I said, the old world no longer believes in itself. Now chalk covers my back and I speak of truth tables and the ones I teach will say: there is an old man, his world is not mine.