Gold for Afghanistan

We are living in unusual times. Our unelected Prime Minister brings his reverse Midas touch to the trouble spots of the world, reducing the Gold medals of our athletes to lead fourth places within touching distance of the airport. Rain washes out the hopes of birthdays, book launches, camping holidays. Guitar strings snap. Pens run out of ink.

There are also developments closer to home. Words unspoken, and unspoken promises. Man is the measure of all things. With all thinks in focus, I can see a lot of development, movement. Reality in a state of suspended flux, like a photograph of dust. Diamonds of chance reflecting upon their own freedom. Within the context of recent family events, it is not surprising that I have met the thoughts of personal mortality with a shrug. Friends drifting away, family members moving on; it is the cold reality of life. The price we pay for trying to be civilised when we are but animals, never meant to organise into groups, families, organisations.

No, wait, this ain’t me. If all this is true, I would have drowned in a soup of cynical dejection years ago. This is something else. Maybe it is just context. Bruises making the surface. Ironic justice, for the writer without a writing pad.

I should be in celebratory mood. The passing of laughter rather than the disposal of tears. Gearshift. Making the grade, the pedestal, the world record breaking top table. Kick out the chancers, more than just taking part, it’s the winning. Speak in horoscopese. I must prove myself as soon as I can; the alternative cannot be thought about, it’s too frightening.

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