Devon, Help me

I'm trapped in a hurtling carriage, old conservatives surrounding me on all sides, young blood noticeable only by its absence. Opposite and opposing me a couple of couples of pensioners spend twenty seven priceless precious minutes discussing the duration of the station stops. As they waste these few moments of their ever decreasing lives, dithering between a declaration of sixty or ninety seconds, I fight the urge to scream in their faces. The problems of the middle classes; a life of such cublicled contentment that we are forced to bite back the bile every time a fellow loner strikes up small talk. We live to forget, we clock off the days as quick as we can in order to get to the next. And what is the result of all this? You see them all the time, the cold grey souls peering out of watery tired eyes, desperate for conversation, crying and bleeding out for something to say and someone to say it to. Away, I spend the week walking by the beach, passing old couples with wispy hair and unwashed cotton jackets, watching the sea, sucking toothlessly on ice creams despite the ever deepening dark grey clouds. Others in their retirement, not so able to find accompaniment, sit in their armchairs waiting to die, and I cannot help but wish them a speedy passage. In these times, funnily, I am thankful for my problems, my difficulties- a daily dabble with diseases, an occasional sniff of financial meltdown, a small glimpse of death every once in a while; because, despite all these "issues" I pretend to have, at the soft closing of each sundown I can usually say:

- 'at the end of the day, today has been ok' -