You think it'll be OK, and then remember all the stories of madness, suicide, ruin and despair that happened to real people, like yourself, and there's no reason not to imagine a terrible end of your own, no reason for it not to really happen.

And at the same time, over the same years, I become bitter, celebrating the losses of others as some great leveller, while still nurturing a fantasy that something will change for the better in my own life, that in the end it turns out well for us all.

I know nothing, can do nothing, help no one, and can't explain what I did with my life.

Another morning waking up with a sore head and wondering how much is left in the bottle, if this can really last forever.

There's a terrible night, after an uneasy evening of ruminating on the sting of poverty and the mockery of the rich, the not even rich, the middle class, the working class who actually worked, unlike me, and then a real storm, with the fear of a ruined roof, more damage to the wood, the dripping into buckets, and nightmares, in and out of sleep, of floods and loss and shame, knowing in the waking hours between the sleeps that the next day will be broken, tired and performing badly, falling into bad habits, making it all worse.

But then I wake up and nothing is broken, I perform well, and the misery gives up to mystery and then the sun starts to set and I'm outside with a beer, some music, my favorite pen, and a bunch of index cards, and I'm breathing deeply, breathing well, as the planet turns and my town rolls away from the sun in a spectacular show, and I forget it all and tap into something sacred yet literally quotidian.

I'm alive, and the real magic, now as ever, takes place inside my head. There's nothing to me beyond me. My world is my world, it lives and dies with me.

I drink more beer, write on the cards, enjoy the hunger and the fire.

Today has been another exceptional day for an insignificant man who lives on the edge of collapse.

The boredom and shame at just waiting for death.

I watch people doing difficult, unpleasant, dangerous and even life- and disability-threatening things, and they seem to enjoy it.

So why can't I enjoy the terrors and near misses, the feelings of almost certain ruin, that I encounter? The highs and lows of the ride to nowhere.

This is boring. This isn't the best use of life. And all I can think of to make it better is self-harm, as in food, drink, sloth, and so on, because any concrete steps towards making things better seem far out of reach, even if obvious: improve my mental, physical and financial health, make friends and get better hobbies. Start doing things I'm proud of, stop obsessing over poverty, madness and death.

I was so anxious to avoid responsibility, challenge and hard work that life passed me by, happening to some other people while I simply got older.

I didn't notice that most people had plans, and were trying to achieve them, until I came up with one or two of my own.

At that point, well into mid-life, it seemed absurd to tell people what I'd learned, absurd to tell people anything at all. Because my whole story could be dismissed in a sentence or two, the set up for a joke without a punchline, a slight tension that never pays off.

I was always interested in dropouts, refuseniks and people who lived outside the mainstream, who didn't play the usual “accrue resources” game, but wandered off and did their own thing, and still got housed, fed and loved.

This seemed way better than towing the line and feeling bitter and frustrated as the years turned to nothing, waiting for real life to begin.

Of course, I tended to ignore the fact that many of these people only existed in fiction, or ended up broken and broke, or were cushioned by wealth that enabled them to take refuge in the arts and launder their inheritances.

I was on the wrong kind of outside looking in. Without talent, drive, connections or money, without even much interest beyond myself and my own immediate vices.

When looked at in a cool, dispassionate manner, it’s amazing I’ve had any kind of success at all, never mind a veneer, however thin, of modest respectability, or at least not too obvious a loser and creep.