[5^th June 1832, by Prouvaire: one of those plotless internal monologue things, this is Jehan’s take on A Life About to Start because, well, I thought p'raps he needed one. And it was kind of cathartic. So, yes, apologies all round for this one.]

I Did Not Live Until Today

“You know I’ve heard about people like me, but I never made the connection:

They walk one road to set them free – then find they’ve gone in the wrong direction:
But there’s no need for turning back when all roads lead to where I stand -
And I believe I’ll walk them all, no matter what I may have planned...”
- Crossroad, Don McLean

Do I believe in Fate?

Someone always asks us that at some point. But of all the things to think about in front of a barricade – at least it stops me from wondering when will be the last time I see my friends. Anything we do could be the last we see of each other – the next time Courfeyrac catches my eye that conspiratorial smile of his could be his last, the next time Combeferre says my name it could be his parting word, the next time Bossuet glances over and waves he could be waving good-bye for ever. And I can’t think about that, not now, because…because this is hard enough as it is.

I am not afraid, now, at least not as I thought I would be. If I had imagined this moment before today, I perhaps felt that being here, waiting for the chance we needed but waiting for hours now rather than weeks and months and years, would be the closest I could come to standing defenceless in the middle of the darkest thoughts and fears I had, but the reality is far removed from such a nightmare. All of us are, at this moment, better than we are, ennobled by devotion to a cause and united by loyalty to one another, and if I am afraid of anything it is of seeing the apprehension in their eyes despite their smiles, of hearing their laughter ring hollow – if I’m afraid of anything it’s that, and I am.

Do I believe in Fate? I don’t know. I want to believe that I am as much to blame for my failures as I am to be congratulated for my successes, that my circumstances are of my own construction, that there is no such thing as luck or destiny or any other excuse we make when it all goes wrong. But there are moments when we look down and realise that the world is turning under our feet and there is nothing we can do to stop it, that we have come to the end of the line, that – that this is not the way we thought it would be.

Is it easier, now, to believe that whether it’s what I want or not, this is how it’s supposed to be, all engineered to perfection? Or am I to hold myself responsible for the situation I’m in, to believe I am wrong to rail against a predestination that never intended me to be here? Have I been caught up in a poetic idyll, sentimental idiot that I am, deludedly believing I would find the meaning I was searching for through sacrifice – or do I have any right to believe I am one of those souls who do what they are born to do; who, whether it is condemnation or glorification, recognise that and exult in it?

I know that I believe in what I am fighting for and what I may die for with everything I have, and I know that mine is only one in Heaven knows how many lives that might be extinguished in this insurrection – oh, but that only makes it harder – and part of me knows that I have never had a choice. This was never about idle chatter in cafés, was never a speculative promise to something for which we weren’t prepared to sacrifice so much as the breath with which we spoke it – I must have known from the very beginning, long before talk of barricades and bloodshed, that this was about giving whatever was asked of us without grudge, every single heartbeat, and can I really question whether I ever wanted this to happen now, when every pathway I could have followed leads to this one and this is the only possible ending? From the moment I shook their hands my own were stained with blood.

But oh, Enjolras, Combeferre, all of you – we are no longer innocent if we ever were: we have come too far, we are in too deep, and there is not a single one of us without someone who would give anything for us to be with them now, not waiting in the darkness for Heaven knows what at this barricade where the lamplight dissolves in the rain-washed streets on a June night when the air should be heavy with roses. Everything that might have been up to now, everything that might be in the future if there is one – it all points to this moment: I believed in it years ago and I do not believe in it any less now I am on the point of losing everything for it, but only now am I truly aware of all I have to lose, all every one of us has to lose, and for that I should perhaps be grateful. Really to believe, as I believe now, that the future we are fighting for is worth more than my life – really to feel as strongly as I do now, with everything I have and may never have again – is to live. If I have never been nor ever again shall be so aware that I am alive then I am thankful for the precipice I stand on the edge of and for the infinity of nothingness that lies beyond it.

But if I have to watch a single one of you fall into it before me, I only hope I can keep one shred of my belief in this cause from hurling itself after you.

(Told you I should stick to parodies – September ’02)

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