Picking amongst the pieces

Does Sunday evenings carry a sinister spell? A Sunday evening seems to rattle the creaky doors of the closet; prise open the casket; slip a stone from the wall to make the whole rotten caboodle tumble out for the sorry soul to savour. And come Monday one has the whole shebang cemented and back behind the wall, to last another week or two. As we march on valiantly with our masks on tight, we seem to find the necessary bricks to complete the wall. But every Sunday evening cracks begin to form and the wall threatens to tumble. So the cycle goes on and on and on.

As I sit here pondering the futility of my existence, I cannot help finding myself staggering at the edge of a precipice beyond which lies the pit of self-pity. Yet, all things taken fairly, it would seem that whenever I put out my hand to touch the beauty of the rose, it is only the thorns I feel. The tragic tales of love unanswered and feelings denied appear all too frequently along the tortuous paths of this live half lived.

All too often, once half-life is reached, the time for stocktaking has arrived. The balance sheet is drawn up. The profit and loss account is summed up. The cash-flow diagram for the rest of the projected existence is estimated. A sense of reality is reached. Has plan Z been reached? Has filing for bankruptcy become the final plan, the final solution?

What drives us to get up, shake our heads and ask for more? When love and friendship merge into one and all is lost, what makes us get up and storm into the wall again? When the heart knows its own path and boundaries between sense and passion blur, where does the mind draw the line? Where are the answers to these questions? Who has the wisdom to know and the courage to speak?

When the game of life enters extra time and the score is nil, when does hope give way to despair and hopelessness kick the winning goal? Will it help to fire the coach?

Pink Floyd was right: All in all, you were just bricks in the wall.