I thought there was nothing to build, nothing that could be done, despite living in a world that had been built and surrounded by people who had done things – were doing them, would do more.

This lack of achievement and drive was like a badge of honor for some decades, as I existed, and lived well, and didn’t dream Napoleonic dreams or even seek to accrue the ordinary things – a car, a wife, a home.

But while I slept and tossed and turned, spent days and weeks and months and so on getting well rested, eating well, having fun, going deeper into myself with the expectation that something good would be found, the essence of life, the meaning of things, others moved ahead and the world continued to develop, people continued to build, and so I got left behind in many if not all ways, tied to the page until even that disgusted me.

There was nothing to be done, and yet all around me things were done.

I found hope in an apple, a glass of water, a way of moving my body so things stretched. This was life, wasn’t it?

And yet I was poor, precarious and still am, with youth a distant memory, and men my age now grandfathers.