Xmas lost

 

Konica12496

 

My uncle especially liked this picture of me.

He died in November.

Now I am completely alone.

 


 

 

It has been a stressful time, though I somehow managed to continue weekly posting.

I keep hoping my audience will grow consistently beyond single figures, but the stats usually arrive as a digital depressant, including many vacant days without views.

 

 


 

 

This first Xmas of blogging sparked a new worry:
could I be the loneliest person on WordPress?

 

Probably an unanswerable question.

Yet, my situation is rather unusual.

30 years of chronic illness, pain and exhaustion.

A 27th, consecutive, Xmas spent alone.

Not feeling well enough to go out.
Or make new friends.

The phone doesn’t ring.
I cannot think of anyone who would want to hear from me.
My family are dead. I am the last of our line.

Except for my uncle, no-one has visited me, socially, since 1995.

I am used to emptiness, though Xmas and birthdays still hurt.

 

 


 

 

I shall end on a different note:
by saying a big…

Thank you!

To everyone that left “Likes,” or comments, on my blog.

Your feedback was the most positive online experience, for me,
and I still get excited by it.

 

I hope you all have a good 2018.

 

Best wishes

from Ken.

 

 

(memories/feelings/loneliness/lostness/mental health/depression/life/thoughts/writing)

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Kinds of silence

Lostness   (15)

 

A lost object still exists, or there would be nothing for which to search.

 

Finding blades of dried grass, some crumbs, even a tiny bloodstain, as I turn pages in a library book. Reading about imaginary characters, while passing evidence of real lives:
those who touched these pages before me.

 

Belongings of the dead remain, like mute triggers for our guilt, over loving words we found no time to speak.

 

How many kinds of silence are there between us? Perhaps it is a sign of closeness, this ease in each other’s silence.
Do I really know someone if I am deaf to their silences?

 

Memories or geology: darkness and metamorphosis, seething in unseen masses.

 

Bad enough that we must die: to spend life tormenting one another is a sort of obscenity.

 

Death approaches. People fall away. Bringing realisation of primal aloneness.

 

Can I love for a moment?
What else is there but the moment?

 

Should I write about women when I have never gone beyond their eyes?

 

 

(Feb/1979)