The man attempts to make sense of his forty-odd years of graft in 18 black bin bags. Type without the yellow drawstring. A deliberate last act of ‘fuck you’ because they are so hard to carry. Every emotion the man ever had are evident in those bags. Long decisions at clothes rails in department stores or in bookshops.
life is full of decisions each takes you one step forward or one step back. Decisions. Should I get this buy that, or do this instead? What about the garden all that work it’s just looking manicured. The kitchen and those marble tops are exchanged with a loan that needs to be paid long after the bin bags are emptied.
Not risking the toothbrush or where you have had it prior to bagging it up.
Why do we do this to each other it is so torturous. Such thoughts can’t reside in my head rent-free. The flashes of a life once lived, pass across me like sky tramlines. Not even substance before my eyes.