A Monologue by Jean-Pierre Martinez
If we were to meet on the street as we will be in thirty years, do you think we’d recognise one another? It’s hard to say… Well, I don’t mean you and me in particular. We hardly know each other. There’s little chance I’d remember you. Especially since in thirty years, you’ll have aged quite a bit. You’ll be unrecognisable if you’re still around… No, what I’m trying to express is, suppose I unexpectedly encountered my future self, thirty years down the line. Would my own face seem familiar? Back then, three decades ago, I sported long hair, rode a motorcycle, and immersed myself in Rolling Stone. If, in the present, I spotted myself in the subway, with a receding hairline, engrossed in The Financial Times, would I recognize the connection? Would I, at the very least, ponder: ‘Well, that’s peculiar – that older gentleman looks somewhat familiar. He resembles my father a bit.’ In that case, I might not be eager to engage in a conversation with my future self anymore. Over the course of thirty years, we undergo considerable changes, often not for the better. Are we truly unchanged, or do we inevitably evolve into versions of our own fathers? The fear of dying one day is a common concern, but our worry may be misplaced. We don’t experience death in a single day—except, perhaps, by accident. When we succumb to old age, we gradually fade away with each passing day. Eventually, we forget who we once were. We’re all destined to become unknown soldiers. If you have the chance to live for another thirty years, it won’t be you they lay to rest; it’ll be someone else. Someone unfamiliar, someone you’ve never crossed paths with and will never encounter. A stranger who may not even be someone you’d find agreeable. Because let’s face it: we don’t tend to improve with age. Keep in mind that if you don’t particularly appreciate yourself now, thirty years from today, you might find it hard to tolerate the person you’ve evolved into. Maybe you’ll even wish for their death. Don’t we all, more or less, desire our father’s death? You’ll blame him for not cherishing you like a son. And he’ll resent you for not fulfilling his dreams. To understand our father, we would need to have known him as a child. But even then… When I gaze into the mirror each morning, I struggle to recognize myself, and I can’t find anything interesting to say to myself. So if I were to face a guy like me with thirty more years on him… A guy who might never exist, by the way. If we knew our date of death at birth, we’d know when we’ve lived half our life… No, intergenerational communication, even with oneself, is not easy. But here’s a piece of advice: if you meet yourself tomorrow as you’ll be in thirty, forty, fifty years, offer this prayer: Our Father who art within us, may our name remain familiar to you, may your reign’s end be peaceful, may your lack of will not condemn our dreams, give us each day a reason to live to your age, forgive our wanderings as we must also forgive your resignation, let us succumb to temptation, and free yourself from remorse.
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A sketch from the collection Like a fish in the air
Link to the collection for free download (PDF)
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