The Game

I wrote the following verse a while ago, about ten years ago. This is how I felt at one time, but I don’t feel like this now. A wise friend said to me lately that our writing from the past is still valid, still important, simply because we felt like that at one time in our lives, so it’s still a part of us, and we shouldn’t dismiss it. (Thanks Mike. You inspired this post).

His advice got me into thinking that our past writings are like part of our photo albums. Would we cut photos out of our albums because they are no longer relevant? I’m sure some people do and have, but they are denying themselves their life story. It’s certainly a part of us we shouldn’t deny, as we need to know where we’ve been, in order to know where we’re going. We can learn from our writing from the past. What I’ve learned, is that hope is real and it does manifest. It’s very easy to feel that the future is bleak, and we may feel suicidal at times, I’ve had their number on my phone before today. 116 123 UK or Suicide Hotline.

The problem with suicide is, it’s short sighted. We can’t predict the future. However bleak things feel and how almost supernaturally impossible it is, to see past the darkness at times, the future, unbeknown to us, can hold untold wonders. Moments of this darkness will come back and try to prove us wrong I’m sure, but all in all, there’s nothing quite like looking back at bad times with a detached eye and thinking, things did get better, after all. Regardless of what unfolded, a time line of your happiness levels can be very useful.

Keep your old writings as a measure of how far you’ve come, and dip into them after several years have passed. It may trigger you to make important changes in your life. That snapshot, just like the snapshot in a family album, might finally allow you to see where you were in the past, where you are now and how far you need to go to achieve your hearts desires.


Life’s a lonely game

you shake the dice and your number comes up.

And in the aftermath of carnage

hope hides, a dream stirs, clinging to the dust

The devastation of the explosion

will only make you miss a turn

and you’ll have to go back –

five paces.

Well, you know, I don’t want to play on this board no more

Cos no one plays fair

I’m going to bed, turning in

Throwing in my hand

Too many snakes

Not enough ladders.






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