I remember one day many many years ago seeing a piece of graffiti in a railway tunnel: “Being undead isn’t being alive”.
At the time I think I was suffering from a mega hangover. Those were the days where there was no limit to stupidity, particularly when you had to go to work the next day.
But it made me wonder often over the next forty years what the graffitist was trying to tell the world.
Being undead? What sort of expression is that?
I think he was alluding to the fact that being alive was more than just drawing breath, eating and sleeping.
I wondered what his predicament was.
Had he or she just broken up with a long-term partner, that painful time when one or other calls it quits?
Or that time after an argument with one of your parents, or a best friend, and it seemed there was no path back?
I knew what that was like because it happened to me, and no doubt just about everyone else, over the years.
It is a pain like no other, that emptiness you feel, the reaching for the phone to talk to the one person you thought understood you.
Or is it like that feeling of being betrayed, that awful feeling when you discover your partner is cheating on you, and inevitably everyone else knew, but you’re the last to find out.
That everyone else knew and thought they’d spare your feelings, hardly spares your feelings and only makes the betrayal worse, because your friends were hardly acting as friends
At some time or other, we’ve all been there.
That to me is spending time with family and particularly when my grandchildren come to visit.
And being the writer I am, the happy ending of one of my romance novels.
Sorry but I’m an optimist.