This thing that I am not.

There will always be this thing, that I am not but that others are. As I struggle unnoticed, with children and am passed, going the other way, by two men in a Porsche, speeding their own way up a slippery, snow-clad hill. Yet I will also be he who is watched as he drives off, or around another, different, corner.

I will never be he who steps over the winning line having done 10K in under thirty minutes or who scores the winning English try. Yet I will grow old as these others do, and pass along in their fashion too, filled to the brim with me, me, me.

I will never, again, be the person forced to be part of me through blood. To be proud and yet at times doubtful of that father’s sanity, watching myself in the mirror as one and another in line, step over and into life. Never will I be he, bound in snow and ice, who stands waiting for the next rain.

Stand on that position now, neither here nor there nor gone. Turning again in my mind to the day’s mistakes, the lack of judgment, the pointless anger, the tired impatience, the idiot lack of understanding, the bullying that size too often brings, the guilt at huge gaunt clumsiness, the sorrow at stupidity.

Just try to be better, let tomorrow start another attempt, be Groundhog Day again, get some exercise, eat well, drink plenty of water, work hard, strive to be happy, bring happiness to others, forgive yourself your imperfections, accept and understand…

Or do not do so and try to sort it out…