Do people still make them? Do those that do, actually believe that they’ll keep them? I wonder.
How many will cut down on the fatty foods or cut out the cigarettes? Who will pass on just one more chocolate from the Christmas surplus? Possibly more than I think. Probably less than I’d hope.
I thought about making some resolutions. I could cut down on my fatty foods, but I’m not sure of the calorie content of slop. I don’t smoke, so cigarettes are safe around me. I could, I suppose, be more positive.
But then, it’s difficult to be positive when you’ve voluntarily put yourself in a mental asylum, feigning paranoia, because people have a tendency to die around you.
A little rude, that. Dying around me. That’s a joke, by the way. There’s really nothing funny about death. Or Death. He and I have had many a conversation on mortality and more, and he has a distinct problem when it comes to cracking a joke. Maybe it’s the way he tells ’em.
But, even though the cries of those that are deceased due to me haunt my slumber and my days, I could, potentially, be more positive.
My friends, here, look to me for support. Whether I like it or not, I can calm and guide with barely a word. Perhaps it’s because I’m the only sane one in here. Perhaps it’s because of my accepting, tolerant nature? There are mightier powers than mine to judge. Whatever it might be, my friends call me The Reverend and ask me for a soothing touch – though we are all ‘touched’ in one way or another.
How am I able to be positive with them but not with myself? Why can I appease, please and put at ease those that suffer, but not when I feel pain too?
Perhaps because I am the cause of my own pain. I’m the Brutus to my own Caesar. The knife in my own back. The bullet in my own gun.
Et tu, Sinius.
Polly didn’t choose to have her father become enraged when she discovered her pregnancy. Kenny didn’t deliberately set out that morning intending to have a car accident. Penelope may have had too much to drink, but she didn’t want to crash and lose her son.
Well, I don’t want people to die either, but it happens. It happens because I am Sin. Spit in your eye, wish I could… fly.
I do wish I could fly. Sometimes I imagine I can. Soaring over the sea, arms outstretched, body at an angle so my fingertips skimmed the waters. Just like the seagull in the video I once saw at the top of the Blackpool Tower.
Then I’m suddenly home to roost back here. Fed scraps and slop. Cooped up.
I may as well be a smoker or chocoholic. If this is me being ‘positive’, I’m positively rubbish at it.
I resolve to be resolutely realistic.
I’ll continue to just be me. Haunted but helpful. Sinful but sensitive. Perhaps it’ll make me a better person.
I couldn’t be worse.
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