Everything has to have a beginning, right? Well, we are all born at some point. But what about before that? Am I existing in the womb? And who the hell starts this nightmare anyway? Is it me? I hardly think I'm in a hurry to get out of all that semiotic fluid! Floating in that sea of tranquility. Oh Bliss! Tied to my mother so resolutely, none dare enter, and none dare escape. But leave I must, and so I must blame mother for raping me from this paradise! But can I blame her? Carrying me about for all those months, steadily getting heavier and heavier, wearing down her ageing back. All that vomit, all that crap she eats, and all those months give time to remember the life she once had. So carefree and uncaring just prior to when the seed injected her like a poison. It must be mother wanting rid of this painful lump. I'd want rid of me too.
So you're out and there's nothing you can do about it. Well, you could say enough's enough, once you're out. If you do that however, some intefering public-school twit, trying to make a name for himself, declares himself the saviour of the working-classes, rushes you back into the surgery and saves your bloody life! Didn't he think to ask me first? Problem is, even if he could have asked me, or me tell him, a child has no rights. No, a mother dictates her child's rights, even on her death-bed. Language can be as painful as the scalpel sometimes. Scars heal however, but some words never do. I mean how many times have you wished you were anywhere else but sat at that dinner table waiting for the inevitable Christmas Pudding? Will it be a flaming infero? Have the put a stupid six-pence in it? Are we actually aware, the further down that road we go, our children will be thinking the exact same things we thought? Are thinking? But yet never the twain shall meet. It's just language is supposed to break down barriers, but when we are kids they are used to build them up; "Get to your room!", "Don't give me that!", "You'll be laughing on the other side of your face!" Did we ever consider those asinine sentences with the obvious hilarity they deserved? No. Well they meant something quite different back then, something dangerous. I wish that doctor would have questioned my ethics, not only his. His were taught. Mine were too by the way, but in a far different fashion. What gets me is he really didn't care whether I lived or died, he only cared what I could do for him. After all, that is what happens when we are in their hands. You could argue, but trust me, you would be wrong.
Naturally you need an example. So you work 40 years for the same employer, and in those 40 years he pays you the same wage. How, then, do they manage to retire to the Bahamas, and you end up in the local retirement home? It's because, well, it's because they were making a name for themself now wasn't it. All those pennies in the pounds you make were deposited into a super-annuated account. All the tax that you created, returns, in large part, back into their pocket. And so, while they sail off into the sunset, you are left to stare through those graying curtains aching for the end to come. That was me, all those years ago, but my master made me live to stare through those graying curtains far longer than any of you would care to forget. It was never a quesion of "Am I doing the right thing?", not at that age. Not in your case I'm afraid. One day, when your eyes are too heavy to remain open, open enough to see the blurred images of your loved ones - always in the past tense, loved ones, the ones I loved. Is that what you have to look forward to? What I have always looked upon with profound desire? Dare I invoke God in this argument?
