The whole afternoon I spent musing over the times when I still felt needed; when I was continuously being entrusted with serving a purpose. My existence then seemed justified, unquestionable; and not even the fact that I was being dropped and mishandled at the frequency of a hot potato could detract from that. That was then and this is now and ‘the now’ I am not sure I am so fond of. I can’t be expected to continue in this bubble of complacency, every day increasingly more enveloped in this daunting sense of being redundant and painfully unavailing. I, too, have feelings and I, too, yearn for attention and appreciation.
I am happy for the carriers of the hands that once handled me. I am happy for their lungs and their hearts and mouths and their elongated lives. I may also be proud; but I ask for sympathy too. I ask to be released and allowed to lend myself to someone else’s needs, someone who can’t yet see through the thick veil of tobacco smoke that clouds their vision and coincidentally places me somewhere near the centre, just next to the cig. Such is the life I thought was being promised to me that August day, in some remote part of Spain.