Pending under way.

Just a sign would be good. A little update. Yet nothing.

Eight weeks, they said. That was months ago. How can a win feel like defeat? That jubilation has long passed. Instead an ache like no other has filled the void. I feel it in my chest, my collarbone, and as firing spasms of burning paresthesia. It hurts.

I’ve never felt so insecure, so vulnerable, or so weak. It shatters me: a nerve-wracking wrecking ball of uncertainty. I feel waves of anger and catch myself ready to lash out. I picture walls with new found dents, wrecked knuckles, boot-marks in fences, and all manner of destruction.

My mind tests itself with views that I fully disagree with. I see the Union Flags and England colours draped and tatty on street lighting across Manchester and I feel that I don’t belong anymore. This isn’t the nation I grew up in. I feel ashamed to be British. I feel lost.

And that all-important growth is all because of life in limbo. I feel the self-appointed hangman’s noose tighten. I question whether I should section myself. My mind is at war. My body is giving in. It’s weighed down, as if trudging in mud, and I am sinking.

The bad news flows like a torrent over High Force waterfall. The plunge pool rises and I’m face down. The breaths of air I want to take are slipping away. “Come back” on one hand versus a suspended existence on the other. A pulse racing. Light flickering to off.

I’m a grenade. The pin is loose. It won’t take much. A lost bike light in a dark park refused to be found. I boil further. The tangled lead and the dog that refuses to follow. I pull harder. A stubbed toe. A tear that refuses to flow. I am ready to burst.

It’s the hope that kills you.

31st

A whisper from the wind; a rustling beyond the grasses; the shiver down the spine; a flutter unlike an owl.

The head switching to alert; the echo of muscles tensing; a twined strand of cool mist; all senses firing at once.

Musty tastes of autumnal rot: the creaking strained lean of trees; light depleted skies; under a clouded moon.

Gentle steps struggle to find silence; leaves, twigs, and earth cast sounds; like drumming snaps to my ears; uncovering creeping creatures.

I should have stayed in; I should have cast no shadow today; and now the evening arrived; my shadow has departed.

Vagrant.

I see myself in the faces of the homelessness.

I see the long stares and uncertainty in their eyes.

They are we and we are them.

Treading a fine line between have and have not.

I see the hunger, desperation, and worry.

I see the lost love, the failed support, and a state that has abandoned.

They are we and we are them.

The line so fine it hangs on a cliff edge.

I see the need for help and belonging.

I see the pathway to drowned dreams in pools of booze.

They are what we are and we are what they are.

The fine thread line dangling from a torn jacket.

I see the hope in your eyes when human kindness embraces.

I see the joy when words are heard.

You’re like me and I’m like you.

The line between have and have not closer than you know.

I hear your songs, your rants at pigeons, and your belly rumble.

I hear your tears near-silently fall to the floor.

You are me and I am you.

The damn line we crawl in life.

I feel it all.

But not as they do. Not yet.

Maybe soon.

And you’ll be like me, just like you.

And I’ll be you.

Battle.

Read my eyes. Read them carefully.
I heard you. I really got your gist.
I’m not talking. My words are silent.
I am trying to think. And block out your sounds.

I heard every little thing. I am not deaf.
Why are you so unkind? Don’t you see me?
Look at my face. Read the expression.
A plethora of scribbled emotions. Keep out of my path.

Think I’m deaf, do you? Look at me.
Look closer. See my body raging.
See that deep upset. I won’t speak.
I don’t want to erupt. I am close.

I have plenty to say. I hold back.
You push me and push me. And some more.
Keep on pushing and pushing. Pushing the hate.
Nothing positive to say? Thought not.

Can’t you shut up? Think of better words.
Don’t I have feelings? You hurt me.
You really have made me sad. Unbelieveably angry.
I count. Don’t I?

Divided We Fall?

Never once heard a left-wing leaning leftie say the Union Flag is offensive to anyone. Heard a few republicans call for the abolition of the monarchy and the U.K. flag, and a few Welsh ask for an update to include Yr Draig Goch in it. Honestly, every time I see a post about the U.K.’s Union Flag causing offense to Muslims, and it usually is Muslims, it annoys me. Social media posts, of this hateful kind, being shared look to divide people. Nobody is offended by that U.K. flag. Proud of the flag? Less and less, yes. It represents the majority, born here or drawn here. Perhaps, minorities would display it with pride if the U.K. was a little more friendly.

So, where’s it all coming from? Decades of stretching the haves from the have nots? Year upon years of a widening gap between salaries and costs of living? Or, perhaps tge rich get richer and the poor get poorer? That old cliche. In 32 years since 1990, the top 1% of the U.K. billionaires have seen their wealth grow tenfold. That collective wealth is almost exclusively out of circulation and likely adding to their ability to pull in more pennies. In 2024, according to Oxfam, U.K. billionaires gained £35 million a day. Is that £182 billion a year fair? 70% of the population barely equates the top 1% of the U.K.

Mind the gap. Income inequality may remain constant but the wealth of the richest and poorest is a chasm. Inherited wealth over generations may help the rich keep their titles and banks healthy. The poorest leave behind little and in many cases can’t even add gravestones. Disproportionate tax policies supporting the well-to-do through low taxation of dividends and capital gains benefit the wealthy. Inner city kids have no chance. Should we accept our place? Fodder for Lord Amazon and Co.?

Is there truth in Russia pushing immigration towards the U.K.? Well, many Ukrainians have sought sanctuary in Britain. Wars in Syria, Palestine, Yemen, and unrest across other global regions will always add a demand to find safer shores. Gangs exploiting trafficking for profit and increased ability to find weaknesses in U.K. laws following Britain’s exit from the European Union have certainly raised numbers.

The Royal National Lifeboat Institution (R.N.L.I.) are lifesavers. Volunteers who respond to sea emergencies and pluck the needy from near-certain death. They even rescue sheep and goats from time to time. Life is precious. Their sole purpose: to save lives at sea. A combined crew of 9,800 and 2,000 or so support staff make that possible. Since the 4th of March 1824, the orange livery of search and rescue have been around British and Irish waters, doing their incredible humanitarian work. Never discriminating. I always thought that’s how the U.K. should be viewed: a place of sanctuary and love for life. Perhaps I was naive and should have laughed at the picture of the RNLI boat full of Muslim-looking men heading for the Dover cliffs?

Then again, my Mam has always taught me not to be a knobhead.


When they came for the asylum seekers, I remained quiet; I wasn’t an asylum seeker.

When they came for the transgenders, I stayed silent; I wasn’t transgender.

When they came for the Free Palestine supporters, I kept my mouth closed; I wasn’t a Free Palestine supporter.

When they came for the free press, I didn’t utter a word; I did not write for the free press.

When they came to add internet censorship, I felt conflicted and hid; I did not act against them.

When they came for the library bookshelves, I stood tall and defiant…




Inspired by German Lutheran pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) and his words below (English and German)

When the Nazis came for the communists,
I kept quiet; I wasn’t a communist.

When they came for the trade unionists, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a trade unionist.

When they locked up the social democrats, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a social democrat.

When they locked up the Jews, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a Jew.

When they came for me, there was no one left to protest.



Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten,
habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Kommunist.

Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.

Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.

Als sie die Juden einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Jude.

Als sie mich holten, gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte.



Godwin’s Rule, justified?

Book burning? Check.

Imprisonment due to voices and radical protesting? Check.

Torching the roofs of those in asylum? Check.

Seeking out and spelling out hatred of those with different sexuality? Check.

Refugee hosting state turning to refugee producing state? Work in progress, perhaps.

“An all but universally accepted definition of evil, a fixed point on our moral compass” – Professor Alec Ryrie (historian) on Nazism

These are difficult times. The landscape has gone to the dogs. Godwin’s Law is rife. And, why not? It feels like comparison of current troubles echo that of the 1930s Weimar Republic. Thankfully, by a minority, and not by a government (Israel, aside). But, can you speak your thoughts out loud? Yes, with the right audience. Heaven forbid you should write it down. Worse still, make a video and distribute it via social media. The Left are to blame, of course. Or the reigning government, even in their infancy. Modern-day Britain is a shitshow.

Everything is seemingly dumbing down. U.S. Presidents used to talk and have words that sounded both educated and reassuring, even as their fingers hovered over nuclear buttons. Nowadays, failed (thankfully) assassination attempts appear to inspire confidence and show defiance in a likely pathway to ruling. As Trump, Putin and other loony leaders play with our future, the world is truly heating up.  Modern day Britain can’t even safeguard a Greggs bakery from looters. And the saddest part, the kids who lost their lives in Liverpool. 

The victims: the kids should be remembered, and their stupendously-short, meaningful yet unfulfilled lives celebrated. It is criminal that they did not live longer. Evil swept them away. Their futures eradicated.  More should be done to make their young friends and families safe. An open platform for debate could drive changes and give hope to all. That’d be a good memory rather than riots in Rotherham, London, and Manchester. Is this what life has become? Mourning under madness?

Let the authorities get on with resourcing the criminal actions of evil in hand and stop this cancerous social media disinformation that is treacherous to all who live on the green and pleasant lands of a supposed Great Britain. Or, burn it all down? Otherwise, history will repeat itself. We can’t go on this way.

Peace and love. 🐝

Dream/Nightmare

What are dreams?

Broken shards of unfulfilled hope?

A dealer with an empty bag of dope?

Remnants of longed for lifestyles?

The gap along unwanted aisles?

What exactly are dreams?

A blur of shattered imagination?

A squiggle of smudged reflection?

The wings of a squashed mosquito once fit for flight?

Between day and day is there no longer night?

Where are my dreams?

So, if a dream is supposed to be positive, why does a nightmare grow from good news?

Will joyous elation ready for skews?

Is good news a mask for darkness?

Are all answers but a wild guess?

What makes dreams?

Is the craved mountain peak eternally too far to reach?

Is the hourglass open like that of a beach?

Do dawn and dusk merge as one?

Which silent bell tolls for the gone?

So, what are dreams?

Hear My Problems Only

If I could stop myself feeling, would I tear it out of me?

No, but I would cut this feeling from me.

Dig deeper for focus on possible positives.

If I could remove all the reminders, and the memories to make it hurt less, should I try to silence all?

I need to feel. I need to know. I need to hang onto hope.

No matter how little remains.

If I could wake up tomorrow energised, refreshed, no longer tired and raring to go, would I sleep peacefully now?

I know I can. Yet I can’t. I should. But, I won’t.

I try to release the anger. The pain. The worry.

Should I desperately reach out for hope and determination, clutching it to my heart?

Kick back the snapping, snarling, scrappy black dogs at the feet of my bed.

Today ends soon. Tomorrow starts immediately. Onwards.

Too much pressure.

Too much pressure, I’m at boiling point. Crawling beneath, and within, hidden desperation. I know not, and no longer see what’s around me. I’m scared, so afraid, bring me down.

Too much pressure, bubbling over. I cannot taste this food you make. Isolated, solitary, remote, godforsaken, detached from you. There is no love about this town. The fury I feel is bringing me down. Curled up here, afraid to move.

Too much pressure, burning up. I cannot hear the sound of birds. Rile, irritable, aggravating, enraged – no smiles. All intrinsics, essentials, and instincts instantly lost. Insobriety, inebriated, intoxicated, disappearing. This night stayed. No reappearance nearing.

Too much pressure, feeling cold. I cannot feel your hand on mine. Unevenness, rough, changed, random protrusions throwing out delusions and illusions. Sleeping here in fear’s shadow, hiding away. Cold, clammering, coughing, spluttering, wheezing and sneezing. I struggle to breathe, numb and wheezing.

Too much pressure, reaching boiling point. Too much pressure, bubbling over. Too much pressure, burning up. Too much pressure, feeling cold. Pressure relieving as I slip away. Drifting and shifting. I’m out. Gone.

Nothing to Everything.

It took everything from my system. All energy is sapped. It hit me like a tonne of bricks. A freight train to the soul.

I lost comfort.

Hope vanished.

Life’s path took a dark spiralling turn south.

Goals and ambition kicked into the gutter.

Shattered connections.

Unhelpful, unhealthy solitude.

All I could see was emptiness and fear.

A vacuum of a chasm.

Empty demands and is spoken of in snide words.

Lost belief in myself.

Hurt. Gutted. Irrelevant.
Life being a cunt. Tortured. Shamed.

You gave me everything, every smile and every belief. You fueled me. You lit the lighthouse once again. A defibrillator to hope.

You gave comfort.

Life took a huge mountainous climb towards the sun.

The constant goal and need embedded.

You asked for nothing and embraced my confusion.

Impressive reality and challenges ahead.

It’s a wonderful miracle.

Without judgement, without demands.

Gained a soul this last year.

Excited. Overwhelmed. Relevant.
Life is a joy. Pleasured. Pride..

Rebellion #2: Homelessness

I was ripped from my womb, sent from warmth, from my creator, made to work to the bone for the inflator.

No longer again to see Mother nor Father, in workplaces far away, sent out long hours day after day.

Through taxes and energy bills, through blooded sweaty torn up hands, ploughing out profits for someone else’s lands.


I carried my owners, along with my leaders, and prayed to the sky that God may receive us.

No answer from upon high, to my pitiful cry, as I crept out to deny my sigh. Time was to fly.

The strength of those who fed us with kind, as we wallowed through despair, without comfort of mind. An axe must grind.

Here, I ask of you to reflect for a while,
Along with my colleagues, in times of denial. This life has been a trial.


For we are the future thrust into fear,
And cold nights gave up some lives year on year. Year on year on year.

Remember us, the homeless dead, as we lay down, ice tethered to head. Dead.

Dead.

The Fall Within You

It doesn’t take much to trip and slip when the angry dogs are snapping at your feet. They’ve invited wolves this time and they’re agitated in ways you knew as frequently possible m yet could never escape. They howl and snarl drawing nearer without ever getting close enough to sink their sorrowful rabid fangs into flesh. Their dirgeful salivating pus-filled gums drip oozing brown liquids across the foot of the bed. You feel heavy-hearted panic for a moment. Chapfallen fear.

A white hot cold like steel pressing against your mind’s eye, sliding all senses beyond control, the rage simmers and bubbles threatening to erupt to the heavens above, bringing hell to the day’s gloomy sky. Yet it won’t and can’t. You’re in a mediocre state. The best that can happen is average. The worst is equal to the best. Flailing and flat lining just above terrible but far below lugubrious pleasure. A monotonous gray scale of simply not good enough. The dour silent rage.

You know you can’t escape the wretched day that hasn’t come, but woebegone, you know it is soon to arrive. The fed up walls will fold in and the ground will crumble. You’ll slip, fall, down and tumble. The saturnine strives you had and the live you lived will be gone. The forlorn ashes of the fires burning around you will blow in sepulchral raging winds from north, east, south and west before slamming doleful thunderous bolts of lightning into the parched remains of your skeleton. That morose skeleton itself, fused and beyond mobility. Useless mirthless blue.

Hope knocks at your dejected door but the disconsolate door’s hinges have long dispirited rusted and welded to the wall. The wall has been long-covered by grim vines, rotten downhearted hanging nooses, despondent witch trial posters and fragments of a long forgotten camera obscura lens. The crestfallen wall’s dusted windows each produced Pepper’s ghosts no longer. Their cast down faded glass panes are grimed and moulded beyond shape and figure. Faded features hang weary and low, tangled in slim twine macramé. Downcast melancholy.

Ts & Cs

How do! 你好!

Life has so many pieces of small print, tucked under the seams, crammed into the crevices, and dropped into long forgotten pockets. They can be found as hints, messages and moments in our history. Some are beautiful, dutiful or testing. Most can be learned from, such is the way of life. The small print keeps coming though.

Rainham Steel and their hot flanged joists or cold circle angles being advertised at British football grounds has never ever made sense to me. Yet their imagery on football photography for years on end has stood out and crept into my psychology. The sign doesn’t have a phone number or website. Nothing. It stands out. No terms and conditions. Just a bizarre advert targeting football fans (in attendance or otherwise watching via television) who needs industrial standard steel. Rainham Steel have no clear purpose other than to be present through tradition and maintain their historical connections to the beautiful game. Now, where do I place my girders?

2021 started with optimism, way up in Yubeng village. Through a mixture of local hospitality, Oliver, Piotr and I finished a few days wander with a countdown below snow-capped mountains. It really recharged my mental batteries. Again in summer my passage followed the flow of Yunnan, as if swept a long by a calm river. That’s where I grabbed my first and only tattoo on date. No contract was mentioned. It was surprisingly easy to scar myself for exchange of cash.

A few days after leaving Yunnan for New Year and life’s finality was highlighted as City legend Colin Bell passed away. I never saw him play football. I lived off his video footage and stories from friends and family. I filled my heart with his warmth from a very reluctant biography. Somewhere at the back of my mind the joys of trekking clashed with the feeling of the passing of time. This is life. A condition of living is death.

Three cycle crashes in a year and one trip to hospital as a result of the latter crash brought me down to Earth. My first outpatient visit to an emergency room to patch up cuts and check some impact marks to bones happened. My first inpatient visit and night stays at hospital later in the year terrified me but left me thinking I need to improve my fitness and recover stronger than ever. Even if age is a small print, this challenge shouldn’t get the better of me. I’ll kick a ball again and find mountains to trek in 2022.

I now approach 8 years of life in China and Dongguan. That’s a hefty chunk of my thirties. It’s almost a quarter of my life. I’ve spent two Chinese New Year holidays in Dongguan and it looks like 2022 will be the same. This whole COVID-19 thing just drags on and on. Even my third jab (the booster) has left me lagging behind. I’m on analogue when all around me is on digital. Creased by politics, changing attitudes and a global pandemic of fear, working and living in China is increasingly less attractive. A new two year contract hasn’t been signed yet. I love the job but I must think deeply. There are many implications of signing.

The year 2021 has been quite mentally testing. Unable to travel to the U.K. to see family and friends, blighted by world news of fear, panic and that bloody virus, I’ve sought solace in gardening my balcony and giving a new home to Panda the Border Collie. The little fur ball of joy joins me on the sands of Huizhou to welcome 2022 in. Alongside his doggy girlfriend Sasha and her human slaves Miss Keisel and husband Charif (with student Amir and his sister Emma). Talking with them I feel that homesickness is strangling talent. If we want to leave China to visit family and friends, it seems to be mostly a one way ticket. So few who have left have returned and 2021 had more than its fair share of leaving events.

On the subject of leaving, Sergio Aguero, scorer of that 93:20 goal, amongst his many records and City’s all-time greatest scorer, announced he would leave City. Then he left. He was warmly welcomed at new club Barcelona but the optimism evaporated as he was soon forced to hang his boots up due to a health problem. 2021 wasn’t a great year for Sergio but he did bow out with 2020/21’s Premier League title and a Champions League runners up medal. The perfect ending doesn’t always happen. That’s for fairytales.

Great writers like Jim Steinman and Eric Carle passed away, having influenced countless souls on their life journeys. Their words accompanied me at Scholastic’s Guided Reading conference, throughout three I.B. training periods and some Jolly Phonics. At the end of the day, reading has got me to where I am in Tungwah Wenzel International School (T.W.I.S.) and I intend to do my best with the knowledge I want to share. Perhaps, guidance is my destiny. Only 2022 can tell.

Summer witnessed the departure of many international colleagues to pastures new. Not before Mr Oliver and I trekked around Shanxi, Shaanxi, Ningxia and Gansu together. Not a bad way to say, “Bon voyage!” And then Autumn flew by. The October holiday gave me chance for hiking and wandering but nothing amazing happened. 2022 could be that year. If only the bloody virus would fizzle out. The movies Outbreak and Contagion each hand happy endings. Rene Russo and Kate Winslet didn’t do bad. 2021, however, is the poorer cousin of 2020.

Discrimination and prejudice have risen; borders have increased with social segregation and some countries closing to others; lifestyle changes such as Zoom and a plethora of online teaching, working and scamming; and misinformation became the norm. Afghanistan went backwards as if to illustrate a world trend of fans being hit by turds. Glasgow held COP26 and the world climate crisis was averted. I think. It’s been a funny old year. The most important thing though, is to forget the traditional ways and go for something sustainable and new. The old ways led us here. Let’s go new for 2022.

Happy new year and all the best!

May 2002 deliver hope and dreams.

Ta’ra! 再见!

Borderline.

How do! Nihao!

The stare goes through me. I’m being herded. I must counter this. I’m the alpha here. I’m the leader. We’re engaged in a battle that involves chewsticks, training and discipline. Panda the border collie can stare all he wants now, but this high energy ball of fur won’t be allowed the upper hand. And, to make my point clear, I have dropped him at the vets. He’s going to be neutered. No baby Pandas. No mini-stares. As an unwanted pet, rehomed after a month or so in a cage, his journey from a litter of puppied in Germany to Dongguan ends genetically wherever I choose to take him in our family journey. Stares or no stares.

The last week of school was interrupted twice by the standard COVID-19 polymerase chain reaction (PCR). I had it last Tuesday and Friday at school, as well as Saturday in my apartment garden complex. It is what it is. One case a week last Tuesday in neighbouring Dàlǎng (大朗) town has risen to 25 today. As my school is in Sōngshānhú technological area and my house is in Dàlǐngshān town, we all fall under the 6 towns of Sōngshānhú district: Liáobù, Shípái, Cháshān and Shílóng.

Throughout the last few days, I’ve wandered into Dalingshan town because Songshan Lake and every surrounding park is closed. I was told (by government notice) that Dalingshan library was closed yet I sat there today reading in their branch of Pacific Coffee. I don’t usually favour chains but they have a strict no smoking policy. I read some more Jack Reacher short stories, watched Dave German’s Genius show on YouTube and did a little school preparation. On the way back, I passed an open mall area. Parks are closed. Indoor gathering spaces are closing. I shouldn’t complain. I never really did lockdown.

This pandemic has spread fast and gets me muttering, “Bloody virus” quite often. Yet, since 14 days of quarantine in April 2020, I’ve personally experienced no lockdown. I’ve been very blooming lucky. Of course, the inconvenience of being unable to travel to my hometown in Blighty does more than counterbalance that fact. Now lockdown sits in the town next door – and threatens life in my Blighty. Britain is blighted by this bloody modern plague. COVID-19 released its Christmas hit as Omicron. 2020 definitely helped my knowledge of the Greek alphabet even if the variants list is a cast of horrors.

Twas the nightmare before Christmas and all around the house, excitement sank away. After watching the climax (or anticlimax) of La casa de papel or Money Heist, I found myself feeling like I did at the end of 007’s latest (but not last) outing, No Time To Die. So, what now? It’s almost like 2021 is a loose bundle of scripts with no apparent direction, as if all order had become tangled in the mop head of Boris Johnson.

Walking around, as a solo foreigner, in a town located in South China is easy. It’s safe. Millions of people in a huge catchment area and just a few dozen virus cases. Low violent crime. Scams, for sure. Air pollution, but improved conditions. Man Utd fans, but they’re everywhere. Poor Ole. The one thing that’s got me muttering words like a 1990’s Essex gangster is simply hurtful: people who dart out of my way, or pull their masks up suddenly or cup their hands over their mouth or say in Chinese that I may have the virus. 2020 and 2021 has seen too many divisions. I remain in China as a token of hope. I believe things shall be better. They may need to break more before they get better. It is what it is. Whilst I breathe, I’ll remain positive. Even when I’m negative. Still, it’s hard to be totally positive when Panda is staring at me. Dogs!

Xiexie ni he zai jian! Thank you kindly and goodbye!

Last Tuesday.

Hindsight is a gift.

It’s less than fifty stairs. I’ve moved up just one floor. My head is pounding. Is a gorilla crushing my temple? I feel my legs heavy and weighted down. Am I walking through deep clay?

There are stars dancing around my eyes. Something is shaking the ground beneath my feet. The view I see is bending and reshaping. It’s coming and going from shapes I know to blurred distortions in colours I know but I can’t place.

I feel I’m going to tumble and fall. I stumble. My knees are folding and refuse to work with me. My feet are rooted to the ground but they feel like they’re sliding away. There’s ice under me and the clouds over head are dancing, except it’s a ceiling. I try to focus but my pulse is in both ears and drumming so loud. I can’t concentrate.

This shortness of breath is terrifying. It is horrid to suddenly feel so debilitated. I’m gasping the fiery air and it is raking my pipes on its way down. It tears shreds of my windpipe and leaves my mouth tasting bitter and vile. The little moisture in my mouth has an acidic taste. I have and choke on a lack of air.

For a moment, I feel my heart speed up. It’s struggling. I try to slow myself down and understand these moments. I panic. I imagine my coffin and I try to say out loud, “Your number’s up.” I feel my eyes heavily close and I nod my head forwards. That brief moment of consciousness loss wakes me sharply. Not now. I breath in with all my might. Not today. I force air inward. After what seems like a lifetime, I stand.

Use the gift of hindsight.

Obituary.

If you checked out now, how would you be remembered? Fondly by some? Infamous by others? Perhaps. Not. At. All. Maybe you’ll be forgotten, like a lost teddy bear on a train bound for nowhere in particular.

What’s your legacy? Did you do something good? Did you make someone better? Maybe you broke a heart, or a string of hearts. Maybe you’re but a regret to most and a faded memory to another. Perhaps. Nobody. Will. Recall. You.

What did you do right? How did it go? What did you leave behind? A divorce? A fatherless child? A mother grieving over an unborn dream? It could be that words won’t be spoken about you. Perhaps. Silence. Is. Best.

Who’ll be there? At your funeral. Will there be shadows cast from people? Or the shapes of memories dancing in fading lights spun by the branches of trees dancing in the wind? Perhaps. No one. Will. Know. When. You. Go.

Will you get a choice when to go? Unlikely. Most never know. Some expect. Some arrive at an unfortunate moment. Some prepare well ahead but it arrives far too soon. Some get through extra days and leave as heroes. Some die another day. Some have no time to die. Perhaps. You’ll. Never. Know. Until. It’s. Over.