Songs from the 2nd floor

One day we wake up and we are middle aged, our bodies softened, flabby, slip sliding towards death.
We make the same journeys as we have always done, travelling to the jobs that define us, give structure to our lives. Sometimes it seems as if only the middle aged make these journeys in our uniform of grey. Each one of us has a narrative, a story of failure, of tiredness, of opportunity lost, of the road not travelled.

We live Lives that are full of tragedy, loss, heroic struggles against a world that makes no sense.

But our bodies make clowns of us, we fall and in our falling become ridiculous , recipients of sideward glances, crowds that gather but offer no help.

We rail against injustice, insanity, but no one listens, instead they move us to one side, ignore our shouts.

Our homes are small, practical, built to shelter us, to keep us safe. We find ourselves standing in corners, perched on beds, our heads in our hands, we no longer fill the spaces we live in.

And still the losses come,
Our jobs, our children, business gone up in smoke, all our certainties gone.

And still we continue to move forward, even when movement seems impossible,our very hearts gridlocked.

In middle age we are haunted by our dead, our shame. The ghosts walk beside, quiet, undemonstrative, evidence of our fears, our failings as human beings, behind them other ghosts, other spirits. We want to help, to quiet them, to make them go away.

We look to the old to help us make sense of everything, acolyte like we stand before them before we realise they have nothing to tell us. As they are now so shall we be and all the drink in the world cannot wash away that bitter taste.

Blessed are those who sit down

Blessed are those who catch their hand in the door

We have lived lives of tiny triumphs , won battles that the world never noticed, carried our heavy burdens cheerfully or at least with only minimal moaning. We have survived.

And now when everything seems to fall apart, when there is no sense and only nonsense left, we retain our tattered clown like dignity. Polite, cheerful, we face another impossible task.

Blessed are those who sit down.

Check out this video on YouTube:

Sent from my iPad

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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