Brutal Dejection

I think that in my old age I will terribly miss my kids. I miss them now profoundly with my own foreboded pathos. Everybody seems so apart but I want them to be connected by some kind of invisible yet palpable umbilical cord that could never get severed, but rather would become thicker and stronger with the silent passing of time. Would I be like man who desired the end of his life because the umbilical cord had lost its palpability? It had been hacked away mercilessly, chopped and minced viciously into minute indiscernible morsels, thrown as trash, compacted by garbage trucks, dumped into some smelly, smouldering Smoky Mountain with all the household discards, rotting fish guts, ravenous, squirming, insatiable maggots, rusted cans and flattened non-biodegrable plastic bottles. Perhaps a future site of a housing development in twenty years time, when all the rubbish will be forgotten, along with entombed memories, lying under 3-storey houses and an artificial lake masking its putrid history.

There is something criminally violent about being alone: rated R, replete with unadulterated brutality; dimming, dumbing, and stunning all sense and fragile sensibility.

(Thoughts from 7 January 2006)