Middle-Age – Anton Martin Smith Writer

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

All hail the glorious and much maligned La-BoS-Mi-Ag-NoC!

That is, The Last-Born-Single-Middle-Aged-No-Children folk.

And what brought these words here? – forthwith, I shall tell a tale.

One that I hope even the most the most lemony-faced scoundrels will find perfectly cromulant.

The problem is society tells the La-BoS-Mi-Ag-NoC’s they are ‘old shirkers’ –

Yet we cannot help it – we all still feel ageless, in a forever Twenty to Thirty-odd ‘band’ (not ‘trapped’).

This never changes, even as the years roll by.

The First-borns all boringly copied each other & are ‘happily trapped’ by their responsibilities.

Yes Yes Yes – The First Born Married With Children, aka the Fi-Bo-MaW-Chi’s have it in for us.

They all think there is something wrong with us all.

They don’t see that just like them, we are a merely a product of our environment.

Just as much as they want to be trapped & want to define themselves by the trappings of the trap,

We La-BoS-Mi-Ag-NoC’s want to do the same via Freedom & its cousins of down-time & creativity & novelty.

The difference is they can always take the moral highground, while we cannot – for we are not allowed to.

Society is run by Firstborns & their idle Second-born lieutenants, who love all Traps & all things that Trap.

They even write brainwash-books called

‘Learning to love the Trap’..

‘Build a better Trap all in your spare time’

‘Get 20% more out of your Trap all while you sleep’

‘Escape The Trap of not being Trapped’

‘YES! – YOU Deserve All The Trappings Of The Trap’

‘Live Trap-ily Ever After’

‘I Was once un-Trapped: A Horror Story’

Etcetera Etcetera Etcetera

Still, dispite it all – let us not let them change us a jot, a little bit or indeed even by a big big little bit –

For they cannot truly rationally complain.

For just like them, we are just doing what we were born & raised to do –

Avoid overrated the materialistic straightjacketed falsities so as to become ‘as free as birds’ –

At least in out minds eyes, from time to time, as the Fi-Bo-MaW-Chi’s horrid little machine will blue-moon-allow.

And besides, let those myopic drawn-faced Firstborn tsk tsk’ers gossip & nod dissapprovingly –

For one day when they need creativity – that’s when they’ll run cap in hand to us –

And we will say –

“Well well well – look who suddenly respects my worth, but it’s too late too late sucker – you’re on your own”

Yes Sir-ee – Our final revenge will be sweet.

For it was written long long ago it a time now long forgotten, and probably on some granite tablet,

That the La-BoS-Mi-Ag-NoC’s will inherit the Earth,

While the Fi-Bo-MaW-Chi’s will be castigated to suck on their over-regulated, transmogrified & long-past-expiry-date-eggs.

Viva le La-BoS-Mi-Ag-NoC’s!

Of course that supposed Utopia for us La-BoS-Mi-Ag-NoC’s could just all end terribly like Bolshevism did –

But to steal (paraphrase) a line from San Pedro’s ‘Poet Laurette of the gutters’ to that I will say this:

“Hey it’s my story buddy…..I am the hero baby….it’s my prerogative as the writer”.

Of course, I must admit their is still that nagging voice echoing from time-to-time through-my-mind:

Don’t be a fool the Fi-Bo-MaW-Chi’s will enslave you sad La-BoS-Mi-Ag-NoC’s forever.

After all, I may be a fine La-BoS-Mi-Ag-NoC but I’m still only human.

Sometimes I wonder….

Am I what’s left after making the decision many years ago to not to do myself in?.

For there a few stints of bed-riddled-ness when I was younger.

It would have been easy to seriously contemplate ending it all.

But for some weird reason I always had at least a kernel of hope,

To stave off the dark reaper, the destroyer most grim –

Pick a name.

Perhap’s I mostly keep myself alive for the hobbies.

The 60s-90s Rock music, The writing, The coffee-houses.

Yes that all seems so glib,

But it’s amazing how those things can keep you going,

Even when carrying such a wounded soul,

Even while being left holding a quiver full of broken Cupid’s arrows.

Even after this process repeats with the next long-haired spell-caster.

For I probably wouldn’t try a short haired one – call me old fashioned.

But then again, who am I kidding? –

The Port O’ Love has long been closed indefinitely –

This wasn’t so much a choice per se,

More of something external that chose to wash over me –

These the oh so quiet waters of self-preservation.

Or is my entire life just an ode to undiagnosed ADHD?

ADHD that was masquerading as Depression?

I’m sure all the Docs know this & that’s the swindle –

I am convinced there will be a shady medical profiteer’s book called:

“There’s nothing more profitable than misdiagnoses”.

But here I am at middle age – 46 almost 47.

Still Alive & fighting each day to not become what I used be:

“Self-destructo”

That guy unfortunately squashed a lot of my chances to be young & happy.

Though he did provide plenty of empty drunken highs along the way,

So, I guess I shouldn’t complain too much.

I guess a wise man would simply be grateful for it all & soldier on,

& be happy for the bonus wisdom squeezed out along the way.

And I guess this is our fate anyway:

To live in a world that doesn’t really work,

With the real well-designed one,

Forever just slightly out of reach.

To the more troubled life, the thought is soothing.

And so as the sun goes down, now the comic ends.

And as always….

Once again by the end of the day, the city is safe.

……….but for how long?

Tag: Middle-Age

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