Langoliers

This may be happening in all lives out there, and Stephen King wrote a book about a similar concept, the phenom is that our personal history is being chomped by the system, as time goes by there's less and less physical evidence that anything ever happened to any of us.

I'm so old that my first school resembled something out of a Dickens novel anyway, Clint Road School in Liverpool, which of course is no longer there. Then my parents moved the family twenty five miles away and the dart thrown stuck in Whiston County Secondary School, which, for continuity in this blog, has been bulldozed as well.

That takes care of any record of my primary and secondary education.

The street where I was formed is clinging on, barely, the pub at the end of the road was recently demolished and Botanic Road is the last row of houses from that era, I'm sure it won't be long before the wrecking ball has its go.

Of course, Mill Road Hospital, the place where I was born, is gone, not to forget that mum, dad and probably everyone else who was involved in the event besides me, have long gone.

If we're lucky to live long enough then most of what we know, or who we knew, will fall off our individual tapestries, places will change, schoolyards will become housing estates and few will know or care who the hell we are.

Eventually as our own batteries fade, the very essence of our individualism will be lost and we will return to the cosmos, perhaps to start again.

Or, that will be it.