Time..and how good it feels to be Forty.

The days dwindle slowly away, my time is marked through a hazy, distorted conception of time, of living, of ‘joie de vie’, of happiness unbound, of good times, honest living, of a career which is now in tatters and flames, the flames ferocity engulfing every single good caring memory I once held true to my soul. My life today is on a pyre that burns intensively, its white flame consuming all that once was good, of all those happy memories, that deep honest sensitivity, burning to cinder and ashes forty years of existence. Gone now. Forever. For all of eternity it is wasted. And forgot. Joan of Arc, I empathise.

And what was it worth? To experience those most formative times, from the age of seventeen onwards growing up without a Mum or Dad in a bedsit? Yes, from the age of seventeen onwards you had to do it all on your own; your washing (via a laundrette), you shopping (via a local shop because they gave you credit on your pittance wages), finding work, making friends, experiencing your eighteenth birthday in bed sitting land. It was not as if you came from a poor family either, was it? No, you grew up in probably the biggest house on the street you lived in, your Dad back then had two jobs, your Mum loved you and brought you up with respect, kindness, love, and she taught you to be good, to be respectful, to be brave, to care, to love and treat each and every person you knew with kindness and love.

She is gone now. She is underground, she is no more and she has been that way since you were fourteen years old. So you, poor soul, grew up without parents. You had to struggle through every important life event on your own. The guidance you had came from good people who actually took an interest in your life, that you believed back then thought you could trust. And you did trust. You loved those folk because they actually liked you..or seemed to back all those many years ago, years that are now so sacred in your remembrance that the very memories of those times makes you shed tears of what was stripped from you when you were twenty one years old.

Your Fortieth year passed with you in an alcoholic coma. Your birthday ended with alcoholic intoxication and you try and think back to your fortieth birthday, on midsummers day, on this planet you called home; you just cannot remember that day, the day that really is the most important birthday in anyone’s life. And I guess this really summarises you whole life and what happened when your Mum passed on; you were neglected totally. No Mum or Dad to wish you well, no proper family stood around you, love, no one spoke to you, no one showed any care in what happened when the Woman you spent all your adult years with throws you into the biggest cess-pit ever conceivably imaginable. And I also suppose that all those years were a waste of time too, a decade and half of lies, abuse, deceit. I produced two children from that relationship (we will not ever discuss the others), children whom I will never see grow up and get married from this demise. I know I will never be a Grand-Dad. C’est la vie, such is life.

And I was a good man. A caring man. A man that showed love and concern. A man that was led astray. But betrayal and treachery destroyed me. Combined with deceit and lies.

Karma is a really good word.  I suggest you read up on its true meaning. It is very interesting.