By Anton martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com
Do I have PTSD?
Is the question I ask of myself daily.
And If you’re reading this – I bet you do too.
Did I reach a point at 35 when the until-now-buried, seeds-of stress-all bloomed?
Before that mid-thirties limit, my youth could smother it all,
Like some cyborg-ed cold-hearted futuristic bounty hunter.
But then at that critical year in life’s age,
I must had been once again pushed another infinitesimal millimetre,
But this time, time & space had run out.
Now I was found myself finally pushed right up to & teetering over the precipice,
Of that cliff that was designed for me, & people just like me, long, long ago.
Teetering, thereby when the next trauma hit – (likely disguised a pretty human female),
It would send me careering downwards to ‘bottom-cliffs-ville’ with no parachute, & no recourse.
Then when you hit the ground, youth has suddenly gone forever, & the world has changed.
When you look up from the splat-point, you now may as well be seventy.
All the good things that came to you so easily have now evaporated.
But as the years post impact rolled along this “PTSD” has given you wisdom.
And you realise it’s cut that ‘fake-hard-but-easy’ old world away from you,
As a butcher cuts off a line of fat from a steak, & then whacks it, you’ve been made much better .
Ahhh ‘PTSD’ & AGE – heavens secret gift for your aged soul.
And in truth you probably don’t even have “PTSD” – merely some cheaply made imitation.
But each night you’ll raise a glass to the comfort of it all just the same.
Just like the two billion of others just like you,
Who are also convinced they are uniquely sad.
And we all unwittingly raise a glass nightly & in unison to each other,
As we sit in from of our computer screens,
Forever mourning the sudden death of our own past lives.
Anton Martin Smith Writer 