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.

My mistake (one of many) was not learning how to play well with others, not being able to speak well, hold up my end of a conversation and know when to let things flow. Nearly all life is connections - making and maintaining them, helping others and helping yourself.

Life is simply harder alone.

By chance I see her online, and a road not taken etc opens up once more, with the understanding that I’ll forget the disappointment and dissatisfaction that came right from the start, the fact my life would be in danger from both internal and external forces, that my old age would be insecure and lost in even greater poverty than that which looms ahead of me, like a crumbling tower whose shadow I cannot escape.

I move on, once again, and feel sorry for the pain I’ve caused so many, the shame I brought on myself, the end of other possible lives, and the fact that this is mine.

I should have specialized, found a niche beyond "being myself", accumulated knowledge and skills in a field others admired and were interested in, something I could act on, package and sell, a way to become somewhat prominent and better rewarded, although I've always had (and maintain) a fear of even mild fame, of being known.

I surrendered to the fact that my subjective experience was what mattered most, not how it looked.

But then it all came crashing down again.

Meanwhile, others wake up, smoke a joint, have sex and then lounge on a beach before lunch.

This was my life, once, for years, then it all went downhill.

"Why didn't you try and make more money?"

I had no answer to this, except I once thought enough was enough, when I was young and having fun, when I lived like a grad student (still do) and saved much of what I earned.

But it wasn't enough, not really, not enough to make a life on, the only one I'll have.

The honest, age-old terror of losing one’s income, exhausting meager savings, becoming destitute, going insane. The thin skin holding things together breaks and it all comes spilling out, the miracles of life along with vulgar, filthy, toxic, stinky shit. Facing an inevitable end of misery and shame, alive among the dead, wanting something more than pain.

The horror overwhelms, and the best thing, the only thing, is to look outward, find distraction, or fall into the luxury of masturbatory solipsism, the reality that one can feel good when surrendering to a dream.

I got the opportunity to be myself, I can say that. Though I didn't do much with it beyond observe the madness, cruelty and wonder of it all, beyond fall in love and lose myself in beauty whenever possible, living in the moment like a fool.

What I want is sex and ease, nothing to do but lounge around in bed, potter at home, wander the streets and spend time in cafés and bars, losing myself in intoxicants, experiences and books, without a care for the future or past.