The book project is now my primary task, moving on to death. Often, I feel the work has served its purpose as far as I’m concerned and could dump it, but given that I’m obviously not the only older person dealing with the long-term effects of life’s traumas, it could be helpful to others and should be written and published. So, I’ll keep going. My next task is to write the second part in a language my target reader can understand. Writers should keep that person in mind, and in this case, I think of an older man who was a brother on the streets of Piccadilly Circus all those years ago and who may not have had the same good fortune I had in being able to live a ‘normal’ life and even gain something resembling an education. I feel guilt about being a ‘survivor’ as said today; there were boys by far more deserving than I was to be miraculously lifted out of Satan’s birthday party, and given a chance in later life.
French philosopher J. J. Rousseau wrote, “the life of one is the life of all.” If we have something helpful to others, it is our duty to share it with our fellow humans. All this is giving myself a kick up the arse, which is something I often need.
Aside from procrastinating, which this is as well, there’s little to talk about. My last bike ride ended, maybe it was a recall from escape to face doing what I ethically must do. There’s the yacht that needs attention and engagement with society, which, for me, is attending demonstrations in support of the children of Gaza and their parents, of course, but it’s the children we carry most in our hearts. How do you live when at the dawn of your existence, evil took your parents, your brothers and sisters, friends, even your limbs, it destroyed your belief that the world is a place of magic and happiness? Again—it’s the reality of negation.
Today I think about a boy I met in a Soho backstreet.