A Smile Worth Guarding Errand

March 7, Roland's diary.

Now, now, dear Roland, come and sit beside me. It has been quite a while since we had a heart-to-heart talk, hasn't it?

How strange, that at its core, there is only one person a human being is supposed to live and get along well with throughout the course of their life, and this person is none other than themselves. Yet, our minds are so terribly busy with our parents (and their overspoken or hinted expectations from us), lovers (I never had one, I'm a tiny little boy!), spouses (never had one either, not legal, for god's sake or Merlin's beard), and friends (oh, how much the spice of joy would be missing from our lives without their existence), so that we have pathetically limited time left to ponder on ourselves, the sole companion we have chained together within the dungeon of our bones and skin and mind.

Be at ease. I have no inclination whatsoever to preach to you, my shiny boy. As the only one knowing everything I know, you don't need to be told that I was born into a family far too profane to allow me to pretend like a preacher. If fate had not inevitably destined me to be a wizard, and if I had followed the angelic melodies of a harp poured down on me from the vast skies and thus plunged me into the long corridors of theology, I'd have ample reason to be almost certain that my Robespierreian mother would have applied to the relevant authorities to disown me. What you will receive from me will not be a lecture either, as it's merely the secular equivalent of a sermon, for in such a situation, my dad, who is more tolerant of the grandeur of the church but feels such a profound revulsion at the mere imagery of the academy, would not waste a second to throw me out. We will just pour out our grief to each other, and whilst you have no audible voice, you are quite adept at breaking your own silence through my trembling voice.

Time to intervene! Have you noticed how much you, or rather 'we', talk about my parents, my good old friend? It seems like you, or rather I, have built my entire identity around being the son of an artsy couple. You're a theatre kid, and that's all. What if you were the son of a butcher, sunny boy? What if your mother were the Minister of Foreign Affairs? Would you be walking around with a cleaver or a champagne glass in your hand?

Another intervention! You're not actually thinking all this stuff with genuine and sincere concern. What you are really afraid of is not failing to be someone original, interesting, creative... Oh, boy, your heart sinks into your boots whenever you feel that you're going to disappoint your parents by failing to do so.

But remember - love isn't a transaction. Did your mate, Nate, stop loving you when you couldn't go outside to play together, like when you fell out of that tree and broke your arm? Love, my dear child, is priceless, and no rational law that goes on earth applies in the realm of love. So, stop worrying.

And do try to strengthen the compassion you have for yourself. Stroke your own hair if you can't find anyone else. Sleep, do not forget, is a compassionate realm that shelters even the greatest criminals - retreat there if you can't find your way out. Your most lovable quality, Roland, has always been the smile on your face. So, cherish and protect it like a precious jewel inherited from your forebears, with the utmost care and jealousy. Things will get better; they always do.