Generation

Children79

The daily prompt today is “Generation.” Interesting word. I was wondering exactly how long a generation is. Of course, I had to Google. Some say it’s 20 years, some say 25 years, and I saw somewhere that the Bible says it’s 70 years.

For myself, I look at it as decades. The children born in the eighties, for instance, are entirely different to those born in the nineties and so on.

By different I mean in the taste of music, the changes in education, different style of clothing and often a different attitude. Even the parents differ from their parents due to the “generation gap” or to my mind the decade gap. We are continually changing and evolving as the years go by.

One thing, though, we are still human beings no matter what the going trend is. We all need love, understanding and kindness, and most of all, open minds.

It’s the way they say it.

RoseBWa

I recently heard about an acquaintance who had died.  I did not know this man very well at all and only knew about this because of the business circle  and so word got around.  I was sad for the family and friends of this young man.  Later one of his associates mentioned that he had died from depression.

“I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.” ―           John Keats

Now, being a person who suffers from “Recurrent Major Depression” I am aware of the stigma attached to depression. Those who don’t understand depression or have never had a depressive episode often just don’t get it. They are the ones who will tell others to “snap out of it.”

Depression is often not seen as an illness. People would rather say that a person committed suicide than say that a person died of depression. When people die of other illnesses, their deaths aren’t described in detail; just the name of their illness will be used yet not so with depression; there will always be the description.

“I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. There was shadow in bureau drawers and closets and suitcases, and shadow under houses and trees and stones, and shadow at the back of people’s eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth.”
Sylvia PlathThe Bell Jar  

My point is that depression is a real illness; people do die from it.  It is not a feeling of being just sad or blue; it is a dark, and lonely place, which very few understand or even try to understand.   Please be kind to those who suffer from it.

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

This is the reason I started blogging. I found it to be a good way of telling it the way I see and feel it. The thing that makes me very sad, and lately especially, don’t know why, but when I look back and see what a deep dark hole I was in at one particular time, I feel so ashamed. Logically that is silly, isn’t it, because I should look back and think about how I held on with all my might… I should think that way, but I don’t.

I am grateful to have held on and that I was able to use the little courage I had to keep going.

I would like to thank that man.

Roses

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt:

“Never Too Late”

I may have written about this before. There was a day, many years ago, when I was involved in a car accident.  I remember myself standing on the side of the road, wondering who the person was who was screaming so much. I recall feeling very confused.  After a while my brain seemed to register what was happening; it was then that I realised that the screaming came from me. It was my own hysterical voice.

A man whom I had never met before, a complete stranger came to me and held me against his chest with his arms around me.  He just held me quietly, not saying word.  He was not worried about all the blood on his clothes or the state I was in. He let go of me when the ambulance arrived. I don’t know who he was, but I will be forever grateful. I would like to thank that man.  A complete stranger who was there for me in my hour of need.

Only for himself.

1038r

A quick write for: Writing 101:

Give and Take.
Write a post based on the contrast between two things — whether people, objects, emotions, places, or something else.

“You know, Jack, I thought that you were a little different, but I was wrong…”

“Wrong, in what way, Mia?” asked Jack, almost spitting his words.

“You’re just the same, like all men, you’re all just the same!” said Mia, blinking back her tears.

“Oh please, you’re over exaggerating again, blowing things up in your head.”

“Whatever, Jack, you’ll just blame it all on me and my head. I should have known right from the start, but instead, I kept trying. What a fool I am.”

“Ah, but Mia, you know you are second-hand rubbish…when are you going to realise that, not worth as much as you think you are.”

With tears in her eyes, Mia grabbed her suitcase, turned her back on him and walked out the door…

Jack cried, but only for himself.

Unequal.

Passage B&W
depression
slow dark thud
that sways
like a pendulum
inside
corners of my mind
slow rhythm
waves of dark and light
alternating
swinging with the pendulum
light
dark
swings this way
swings that way
rhythm is lost
stuck in the dark
stays there
less light
uneven swaying…
uneven
dark 

Table for one

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Table for one.

I saw him walk into the restaurant alone.  The owner of the restaurant greeted him with a warm hug, just the way traditional Italians do.  He was an elderly man, slightly hunched over and almost leaning too far forward as he walked towards the table.  The table was situated in a quiet corner of the restaurant.  It looked as though it was specially set for the man as it was set for one.  I could tell that he was “old school” by the way he was dressed.  He wore a neatly ironed pair of grey trousers, an old but clean off white shirt, a jacket and a pair of freshly polished shiny black shoes.   Judging by the roughness of his hands, I thought he could be some sort of artisan or perhaps he no longer had anyone caring for him.

Quietly in his candle lit corner, he took a few cards and envelopes out of his right pocket, and out of the other pocket he took out a few Euros and a pen.  He then placed the items on the table in front of him.

Oddly, he had a smallish sized picture of Princess Dianne, which he rested against the wall, almost as though Princess Dianna was his dinner companion for the night.  He started writing addresses on the envelopes, scribbled little messages on the cards and placed small amounts of money in each card and then placed the cards into the envelopes.  He followed this procedure five times, each time smiling sweetly as he scribbled the messages and placed the money inside.

Being an avid people watcher I felt as though I was intruding, but still I couldn’t keep my eyes off the atmosphere created there where the old man sat.  I found it quite comforting to watch the old fashioned manner of posting money and sending messages.   I wondered if he was sending money to his children or perhaps old relatives who needed a little extra every month.

From my rowdy corner, I quietly shared the enjoyment of the quiet solitude as I discreetly watched over there on the other side of the room…

photo credit: seyed mostafa zamani via photopin cc