I’m lining up my heroes like paper dolls

This post falls between two scheduled ones. Because the two happy events fall thusly. But this is different, not the same happy, more a wistful think.

Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that I am hard done by. Far from it. But it is always jam tomorrow, or whatever the saying is. Something to do with gravy, I believe. You remember just wanting to be older when you were young? So you could be free? (I won’t insert some anti-Statist rant here, suprisingly.) The want changes, but it still goes unfulfilled. Once this happens, once that is done. But given I live in the adult world, there has to give and take. But you look around. I look around.

Fire in the belly is replaced by the dull ache of expectancy, which gets replaced by the hanging on and hanging on in vain hope. It falls under many things: time, money, effort. Affording any of them gets more and more difficult.

Your paranoia is not misplaced. Everything you hear is someone trying to take from you, beat you down, suck your life away. Everything you see is newer, better, faster. But newer in the seasonal sense. There really is nothing new under the sun, people have felt this way before, people have been more trapped than me. But people aren’t me.

Gun metal follows Bible black. If you get the drift, and the shoehorning of a song into this post. Of course now I have dependancies, and having had them a long time, I realise where the money needs to go. I don’t begrudge any of it at all, not one single penny. I made my choices. I should be responsible for them. (No, still not going to descend into a libertarian rant.)

Under the veneer, the hatred seethes. I have been reading wider weblogs recently, and it puts my life in sharp relief. The petty complaints of the young (who think they are world-wise, they aren’t really, and should probably grow up and out), the misguided advice of those who think they can put the world to rights, all this and more, all irrelevant. A mountain of bits and bytes that generates nothing at all.

Pressure to conform, or pressure to produce? Pressure to support, or pressure to provide? With the jampot slipping from the end of the fingertips. More pressure than divorce. Or is that strain? Or stress? They aren’t the same, just ask the wulf, not that I would troll, as I know. Yes, I know. I am sure you knew that too.

It is all pointless complaining. Did I complain? Does it sound like a complaint? A child stamping his foot because his can’t have the toys he wants? There are reasons, because there is a greater good to be served first. He knows that. Doesn’t stop the irrational want. Or the realisation that it really won’t ever get any different, and it will be harder soon. Soon, always soon. Soon I may decode this entry for you. I will, I promise, but I won’t tell you when, or point it out.

Only I will know it has been done. Nothing ever changes without any pain. Especially not a C. My fingers just don’t bend that way. Ish. Lots of forcings are helping. As is a bit more practice. Time. Probably the most precious of it all. And I let it slip, I can see it slipping, but I don’t catch it and use it. Missed. Why can’t I be you?

Surreal it certainly isn’t. Whinging it probably is. Why are you being so reasonable now? Hard work to say nothing while saying everything.

I remember me