Singing all day, singing ’bout nothing
Well, we are still here, dear reader, another day older, another day closer to death. Topic of the day is our mortality. Everyone born is going to die, fact of life, we procreate but death is always waiting in the wings. His sickle is always at the ready but he does have a dark (dare I say black?) sense of humour. I have met him a few times, so I do not fear death, if I ever did. I also don’t take risks like I used to, but as a child I contracted meningitis and, according to my mum, the doctors at Newcastle General told her to prepare for the worst as my chances of recovery were about 15%. However, I’m still here, almost 58 years down the line.
Death came calling a few years later, I had fallen down some steps and, no broken bones, but I’d swallowed a lot of stagnant water from a puddle at the bottom of the stairs. This wasn’t indoors, it was an abandoned warehouse or factory which was due to be demolished. Since then I’ve had a few close calls, some at my own hand, but somebody up there likes me!
Not sure why, I feel like a total reject most of the time, mainly because it was drummed into me from an early age that I was neither use nor ornament. When this gets repeated daily to you then you do begin to believe it. Maybe that’s why I’ve suffered with manic depression (or bi-polar disorder as it’s now called) for so many years. Not so much anymore, am I having manic fits, mostly it’s depression I get. Now I’m not talking about feeling down, I’m talking about suicidal thoughts and actions. Sometimes I forget to take my Prozac and find myself tying a slip knot in a rope. One of these days I’m going to meet up with my old friend death, shake his hand just before he chops my head off to let the spirit free.