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.

For years I was among the smartest and most solvent in any room, but that says more about the rooms I was in than anything else. Dive bars, convenience stores, cheap restaurants and dead-end jobs. A vast underworld of stunted growth and limited ambition, flowing with rivers of booze.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, other things were happening and lives full of meaning were grown.

The horror I knew as a child returns, and this time I know it's for real, fueled by the feeling of vertigo that comes with poverty, precariousness and the lack of social contact.

The certain knowledge there's no end to how bad things can get.

And still I remain stuck in my ways.

Amazed at my own capacity for feeling, which seems to fill me completely, just like it does for everyone else, and all other organisms.

There's something wonderful about this.

I wake up, and for the second day there's no work, no paid work, but still I get dressed and go to my desk, turn on the machine and wait for something to happen that will pay for lunch.

Outside it's a beautiful day, another spring awakening, and time itself is full of possibilities, my hours the same as Caesar's or a child's. There's work, too, to be done at home - the cleaning, sorting and so on to make things better, as well as all the work to do on myself for the same. I need to stretch, for instance, to get back into lifting, to pluck, clip, trim and file various edges and extremities, to end the day better than I started it, to be a little more worthy of love and desire.

I don't know why I'll fail in all of this, I only know I will.

Always be preparing for death. Cleaning up, sorting things out, making it easy for those left behind.

Do not surrender to hoarding, nostalgia or a false sense of immortality.

Be ready to die tomorrow and disappear soon after.

When you're that lost you can only wish for misfortune on others, to bring them down to your level, then beneath it, so you can all suffer together, although them a little more, while others continue to exploit, fuck and mangle you and yours without concern, for profit, amusement and indifference, and still others do well by doing good.

Another world was once possible, and may still be for others, but not for you with a foul mood, depression, and blank lack of effort and hope.

There are the years you have wasted, and the years still to waste, with nothing left over for life.

Shame coats everything with bitterness, even the promise of death.

Only now, decades later, can I see what an awful young man I was, how broken by a broken upbringing, all wasted energy, anger, entitlement, arrogance and shame.

The fact I've made it so far (so far) ought to be a cautionary tale to all who believe in justice.

Although, of course, I am poor.

Assume $1,000 is 1 mm, $1 million is 1 m, $1 billion is 1 km, $8.849 billion the height of Everest and $100 billion, of course, a clear 100 km into the sky. Unfathomable and redundant excess.

Yet wasting time and energy on small distinctions at the bottom of the pile, instead of recognizing that we're all, almost all, in a precarious state, wondering where the next day's / week's / month's / year's income will come from and whether we'll ever visit Florence.

Meanwhile, inside, a feeling of joy.