White (1): My Big Sister.

I am older than her though she is bigger than I, bigger and more respected. I do not seek respect and I do not seek size. Of course many people would argue about what I deserve. This is not for me to say. ‘Deserving is only what your mother serves you.’ as I think Freud once said, or one of them. Not Adler though, never Adler.

My sister lives in guesthouse, you may know her. Many do, many have done. Do I sound bitter? I’m not bitter. Maybe envious, but not bitter. All those men, all those women. Would I trade it? I hardly think so. Though you may have heard my voice crack as I said that. It sounds like a betrayal. Would I betray her? Maybe. But this is off topic, I meant of course that it sounded like I would trade it. I wouldn’t trade it, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t things attractive about what she has. There’s no escaping this kind of web. The admission sounds like desire, it is desire but it doesn’t remove contentment. The idea  of contentment then looks like a foil. Paranoia has leaked into the system. It’s all too late. We need to go back to make any sense out of this.

I was brought up just before the turn of the century, 1892 I was born, that’s the same year as Tennyson, did you know that? I was walking sideways, as I often did, or at least back then, when I was young. I was walking down towards the lake. The day was peaceful. I thought I would throw flowers upon the lake and watch them float away, watch in case the fish would come up to see what was happening. The lake was framed by large old willow trees, the mouth of it anyway. It widened beyond these hanging tendrils and disappeared into an almost perpetual mist. In the mist, which rose off the lake was a kind of bridge over the lake, and in the centre of the bridge was the guest house. A thin peninsula extended from the other side of the lake, upon which there was rough path by which one could reach the residence. My sister didn’t live there then. She wasn’t born until much later.

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