If only health and happiness were enough.

What started as cynicism and despair evolved into an acceptance and then celebration of all that remains, which is everything.

It took me some time to get started, to go off the rails and escape a respectable fate. But ever since then I've been endlessly, tirelessly fascinated with myself and how the world inside interacts with the one I see and the one that more objectively is. Both on the surface - as represented in the roles we play and the cultures we inhabit and make - and the one that remains largely unknowable, which lurks deep at the base of it all.

Everything which happens to me happens only when I'm alive, including my knowledge of all the things I didn't and don't experience, and all the things I imagine and misunderstand. So much compressed into a handful of decades, if that - like everyone, everywhere, ever.

I sit quietly, eyes closed, and breathe in and out, let the worlds within me expand in all directions and then collapse to a point. My breath, my body, the smallness of my presence. 

Absurd, unfathomable, and awesome.

Two thirds in, if lucky, and we hunker down and understand there'll be few more fresh starts, that dramatic changes for the better are unlikely, and our final form, near final, is closer than the last chance of escape we once had.

Yet the joy is real, the feeling that we got away with something, learned some of the secrets, all quite simple, and did more or less what was planned, which was nothing, while avoiding the worst of the fates.

My heroes, such as they were - the people I thought had it all figured out - were calm, cool and collected. Monkish artists, going in to go out, going out to go in. They were at ease, free of demons, so it seemed, although on closer inspection, a look at life not the art, things were often very different. Alcoholism, poverty, sexual misconduct, self-loathing, selfishness, timidity, jealousy, madness and in many cases early death having followed a trail of tears and suffering, with more left in their wake. Not a way of being or series of events one would wish upon a child.

There was consensual reality, then whatever happened within my skin and skull, and I was in thrall to the latter.

I drink less alcohol, more herbal tea, to calm my nerves and not fuck up, not waste time, not become even more of a wreck.

Above all I cling to the belief there’s another story to be told, and perhaps I’ll live to tell it.

I practiced nothing, so mastered nothing beyond being myself.

I’ll be forgotten well before I’m dead.

I’m not sure what I expected by rejecting the world, other than to have the world reject me.

As a teenager reality was mediated by books and music, film and TV, with the latter rare distractions, the former something I fell into with headphones and a library card. Easy ways of escape, and modeling, for the most part, emotions, not lifestyles. And then the lives I did experience on the page were mostly poor, or so it seemed, and mainly bohemian or wretched, but certainly, and above all, self-obsessed. This was the model I molded myself on, or the one that fit best my nature. To explore the world inside to untangle the knot of the being one was born and bullied into. To escape. To live in an eternal spring and summer. To feel free. To be happy.

Now for me this meant going inward and outward, away from home and convention, but also from society, from hope, from ambition, from connections, from the world. And so I found myself at a certain age with nothing - no friends, no acquaintances, no coworkers, no achievements, no abilities, no money, no past, no present and no future, but still inescapably me, having lived a life of indulgence, sloth and lucky escapes, or flash memories, strange pleasures and madness away from the crowd.

A life both real and unreal, lived fully and barely even started.