Valour

 

There is a sense of always running away. I think it is borne out of cowardice. I’m not sure where it comes from, but I’ve always known myself to be a coward. It’s not innate, of course. Nothing is innate. But it is ingrained. Choosing the path of least resistance is all I’ve been good for. It is almost an abuse of privilege to instrumentalize it almost exclusively in carving exits. A rare avenue where spending does not seem inherently excessive. Every room has a backdoor and I can avoid calling attention to myself.

This obsession with not calling attention to myself leads to me creating narratives. I am the narrator, ‘observing’ the human condition. It is my lot to take account, making sure not to influence the story. Despite what I say I want, this sounds not unlike a most degenerate version of being the protagonist. No one is in control of a story like the narrator. Invisibility only enhances their agency. The story does not take shape but for their will. For a story as creation, the narrator’s role is not unlike the creator’s. This characterization of my role here calls for self-criticism. Positioning myself as non-participating other – which I also used to try by being the banker in Monopoly – does not actually remove roles or responsibilities inherent to participation.

This is also just cope. What is a narrator without an audience? Was a story ever written that was not shared? What good is this refusal of reckoning when I am not unconvinced there might be a Day of Reckoning? A dear friend asked recently why we still persisted with fasting. I replied, half-jokingly, ‘so Eid will not be stolen valour’. Takbir?