After a while it becomes impossible to believe in the excitement of the life I once led, and how I still found time to be bored, stressed and depressed.

There was so much color and variety, so many open roads in all directions, and I spent years (decades) doing strange and unusual things that are difficult to explain, much like the change from then to now.

I cannot tell my story with any kind of realism.

Napoleon's apples were no better than mine, his capacity for joy no greater, and at my age he was dead.

Nothing new will happen now, nothing good. There'll be no sudden plot twists, no unexpected hero, heroine, windfall or change in character. This - it seems certain - is how things will remain, unless they get substantially worse.

But even here, in the midst of the blank and overwhelming reality of a life done strange and unwell, there's the lure of the stillness inside, the same easy joy that's always been my secret and shame, my turning from the world.

I wake up and fall into the abyss.

Like almost everyone else, I became part of the working class instead of a man of leisure, although I lived like one, dawdling and idling, spending time on myself, disdaining money and most material things, living as though this were the only life I had and it would soon be over.

It was quite late when I realized that I may have been wasting my time.

Taking comfort in clothing and food, breathing and hygiene.

Doing well the things that must be done.

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.