A coming to terms with the realities of life, an honest accounting of my good fortune and poor decision-making. A further retreat into myself.

I sit on the terrace, the evening sun and a light breeze on my shaved head, listening to music, a can of beer open, another chilling in the freezer, while I am writing this and breathing in and out, knowing all is good.

Now of course, in myth and legend I'd be at the head of a conquering army, horse damp with sweat, sword slick with blood, or better yet driving a supercar along a stunning road, hot chick by my side, as we head to lunch and drink and drugs in a well-appointed hotel with a view of the bay, or just cut to the chase and I'm getting my dick sucked by three women while smoking a joint and rolling hard on foxy moxy, a fourth lady doing my admin, keeping my accounts in order, a fifth whispering in my ear "you will never die".

 

I sat quietly and thought the world would come to me, as it did in dreams.

After a while it becomes impossible to believe in the excitement of the life I once led, and how I still found time to be bored, stressed and depressed.

There was so much color and variety, so many open roads in all directions, and I spent years (decades) doing strange and unusual things that are difficult to explain, much like the change from then to now.

I cannot tell my story with any kind of realism.

Napoleon's apples were no better than mine, his capacity for joy no greater, and at my age he was dead.

Nothing new will happen now, nothing good. There'll be no sudden plot twists, no unexpected hero, heroine, windfall or change in character. This - it seems certain - is how things will remain, unless they get substantially worse.

But even here, in the midst of the blank and overwhelming reality of a life done strange and unwell, there's the lure of the stillness inside, the same easy joy that's always been my secret and shame, my turning from the world.

I wake up and fall into the abyss.

Like almost everyone else, I became part of the working class instead of a man of leisure, although I lived like one, dawdling and idling, spending time on myself, disdaining money and most material things, living as though this were the only life I had and it would soon be over.

It was quite late when I realized that I may have been wasting my time.

Taking comfort in clothing and food, breathing and hygiene.

Doing well the things that must be done.

I look around and think what I could sell if unemployment manifests. There's not much - nothing, really - worth the effort. Trash is all I own. Objects, not assets.

The fear almost overcomes me, so I distract myself and avoid all efforts to make things better outside the inside of my head.

I create my own reality, one of daydreams, mind hacks and art, far removed from the actual meat, bone and stone of things, a world that's always ready to consume me.

The gift of life, spurned.

Someone I know, someone I thought I could have been, turns up on TV and does their job well, appears at ease, conveys knowledge and competence, doesn't embarrass themselves and those who know them, doesn't scream out for a hug, and I realize then this could never have been me.

What I wanted, and what I got, was anonymity, but with comfort and fulfillment, pride in myself and the respect of those who know me best.

"He did well with what he was given, didn't waste his time, didn't bring shame on himself or disappoint others, and made the place a little better. I was glad to have known him."

Instead of all this.