S.O.C.I.E.T.Y

What ensues is the sum of things that have been rushing through my head since I returned to shore..back home..to what is generally termed a "normal" life. Rushing through..not fleeting past, but like a freight train fully laden with lead, thundering over the rusty tracks of my brain. After a long time of work at sea, living a routine, which automated clockwork wouldnt do justice to, it's strange coming back home.To people- whose careers, like octopi, have entagled most aspects of their lives. And here I am- Cant help feeling like I'm wasting time while kith and kin toil their lives away. But on the other hand, I didn't get weekends off,and not public holidays, national holidays, state holidays or my birthday. This gives me time to write my memoirs- for posterity of course. I intend not to impress you with my eloquent prose (which isn't at all eloquent.)
Somewhere along the timeline, our paths deviated. Yours and mine, for there was good reason. You, dear reader, were here, and I was there , somewhere. But it isnt just you and me I'm talking about here. Between writing, and the other myriad ways in which I abuse my time and freedom, I happened to venture out for a game of football with the little juveniles that populate my little neighbourhood. The thing that struck me, instantly actually, is the magnificence of childhood itself. An innocence almost universal, pure as light itself, and twice as blinding. Somewhere, we lost our way. Lost who we are.