It is the Ghost of Christmas past. My mother’s last decent photograph that I took before they mashed her brain is hanging on the wall of my bedroom. I do have some of her when she was a beautiful young woman and I was a glimmer in her eye. But I do not live in the past or yearn for my life that was stolen from me by shrinks by brain damage and poison because I wanted to get on. I think of the future. Of the things that the unborn will see and if our descendents will survive or if the human race will die. There is no future for me I am old and a mortal man doomed to die. After fifty years they have taken me of brain poison and now they want to remove my brain because what I say puts their jobs and their lives on the line. I suggest, Shyrell, that you shred this memento of the past and let the memory of you lost son die. You will then be free of his ghost. That is why I am slowly throwing away all my old photographs because they mostly bring tears to my eyes. I have been told when my life comes to an end I will cry. I will, I think, and I am crying now about the life that slipped by unnoticed. All the promise of childhood did not happen and nearly all my money was taken. I am left with an empty house and memories of what once was and thoughts of what might have been. But at least I have a house. They might take that too. They are so obsessed with some weird theory of capitalism that they have lost their basic humanity. Chris, a lonely, sad, old man. From: owner-photoforum@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:owner-photoforum@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx] On Behalf Of Shyrell Melara ---I suggest you just remember him when he was 18.--- From: YGelmanPhoto <ygelmanphoto@xxxxxxxxx> |
