Hi Folks. The Zombie's back. Craving for more depressive ramblings you are? Welcome to the show then ...

I think I mentioned that Christmas or Valentines are really no events for me. They effort some empathy, some emotional involvement which obviously is not healthy for me. Part of this is self-made, I know that well. Part of it is ... well, I'm Lovecraft's Outsider, really. I'm not impressive, not memorable, I'm rather pathetic. People don't remember me usually. No heads turn when I pass by. People rather go out of my way when I use my "professional" glare (which is pleasant in a way - crowds parting like Moses the Red Sea. I hate crowds). Emotion always makes me vulnerable, but almost never makes me happy. Without emotion, more "Ice-Cold in Alex" than "Some Like It Hot", I'm unhappy as well, but I can’t be hurt. I can be very, very unemotional. I can keep people at bay and feelings under control. It's just like ... well, it's like being dead. Without the maggots. It also covers my pathological shyness, I guess. I'm too old, I should be over this by now. On the other hand, I'm too old to start a new life. People my age already think I'm stark mad. Younger people think I'm just a silly old fart.

Ah, yes, age and sensible dates. A few days ago I passed another mark on my way to expiration (or extinction?). As it frustated me, I’m afraid I'm not that much back on my way to the local graveyard I visited so often in the past, not dead and cold enough, I guess. Four people called me for congratulation. One of them a friend for many years now, a banker, which whom I share a love for England and who has too little time for meeting new friends, I sometimes tell him, as bankers - in their free time - just talk about their work obviously. With me, he can talk about ... well, the more-or-less glorious past, mostly. Next one a former colleague ten years my senior who was very much in love with me ... about 25 years ago. We later played theatre together for quite a few years. I had no contact with him for about two years, so it's lovely he remembered me at all. But I know already when we meet in a few weeks, it will be a rather boring event, because what we shared – work, theatre – we don’t share anymore. And frankly I can’t imagine anything else we share. Or I can’t remember. Third was my eldest brother, who invited me for dinner; some sort of ritual since my mother’s death. I don’t care that much for his wife’s food, but well, better than sitting at home, so I went. My other brother was there as well. We argued, of course, as we always do. Nice. Good-bye ‘til Christmas. Please don’t call in between. Finally, a quarter to midnight, a close artist friend called I’m always pleased to hear. That was the best thing, but also reason for getting somewhat melancholy. Many reasons in a way, which I won’t list up. But one is the fact that our online game guild we share, on the way to greater success, in fact, started to struggle and now is falling apart. For me, this guild was very, very important – it really was sort of family for me; but the guild’n game was the one interest and love we all shared, and everyone who turns his or her back to it turns it to me as well. In the end, we all will have lost those we shared many happy hours together, for there’s no point continuing contact without this for most. Those who has been friends before will get out of it unharmed; I will be lost like a shipwrecked in the large, stormy ocean, with no land in sight. I don’t make friends easily, and therefore have very few; therefore each is a great loss, with each one part of my heart goes – different parts, very different sizes - and only memories linger. Memories are the only thing you’re continuingly winning in life, good or bad. The losses may not grow in quantity, but the pain grows.

When younger, my heart jumped when I saw the first flash of sunlight wander over new, green, fresh grass, when I heard the wind in the trees, or the sound of rain – I was out in the rain often, just for the feeling of it. Now I keep out of the sun, away from happy, smiling, laughing, coupling people. I can’t stand them. Like Scrooge, I can’t bear their happiness.

I want some happiness of my own. A jumping heart. A stream of sunlight. Life is about losses, and about pain – at least to Schopenhauer, if I understood him correctly. Hes buried in my home town, a fellow corpse, you might say. But I’m fed up with losses and pain.

If life’s really about this, I’m all fed up with it.

P.S.: If you care to learn about my presents: one cheap and rather boring 70s horror flic which, nevertheless, was still missing in my collection (I was waiting to get it very cheap on ebay, in fact), and a modern American monster movie (not needed) which is even worse, both by my eldest brother; and a vampire novel I never heard of which turned out to be some sort of romantic novel pepped up with sex scenes, obviously thought for a female readership, by my banker friend. That's it. Honestly, I can't remember a worse line-up in many years.

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