It is a terrible thing to feel like you’ve been born wrong. Like somewhere, some deity took His/Her/Its eye off your particular ball for a second and it resulted in some weirdness that makes you feel like you don’t belong. Maybe you feel like you were born in the wrong place.

Or the wrong time. I’ve often joked about being born too late. Other people joke about it – my mum’s been saying it about me for years. A lot of other people, some who don’t even know me very well, have echoed the sentiment. I’ve laughed and joked about it, all the while wondering if the great tragedy of my life would prove to be the death of my great love before I was born. Of course, the identity of that ‘great love’ changes every now and then, or they fight amongst themselves. I’ve accepted this because, let’s face it, it’s not like I’ve got a choice. Time travel remains the realm of science fiction, daydreams and Marty McFly. I’ve accepted it and figured that I’ll find my place in the now sooner or later. Like I’m choosing to live in the past because it’s easier, or something.

Lately though, I’ve never felt more like it’s wrong the way it is now. I mean, out and out wrong. Like somebody up there made a mistake. And I can’t bear it.

There was one thing, one little thing, in my mind that kept me anchored in the now. It was something that said to me “Yes, this might just be the reason you’re now.” And now it is, more or less, gone. The reason I had for being now has been taken away and once more, I sit here floundering, wondering why I’m in 2005 and not 1975.

I never felt like I was meant to be in 1955 or 1965. I’m interested in those times, the people and the music and the motion pictures. But you know, I am desperate to get back. Let me get it back, let me get it back, baby where I come from.

I can understand the feelings of not belonging I’ve always had. I’m Irish-Anglo and adopted. I don’t belong in this town I live in, but I’ll never belong in London or Dublin or Galway either. I learned a long time ago that one must make one’s own home. Mine is created in the small sphere of a purple room that’s been my only sanctuary through times I thought I might not survive. But it’s not right. I’m not meant to be here and I’m not meant to be now.

What, pray tell, is keeping me here, now? The internet and DVDs? I love you all a great deal, and I adore what the internet does, but I could certainly live without it. I did for a long time. I read books instead. I hate mobile phones. I don’t need the six hundred cable channels one is now afforded. Hell, I could even live without Never Mind The Buzzcocks. I don’t need McDonalds. I could even live in the pre-Diet Coke years as long as I could get meself the occasional regular Coke. I don’t like this world we live in, but then nor do a lot of people. A lot of people hark back to days gone by – the nostalgia industry is booming. But do they feel like they don’t belong here, as I do? This is not a new thing for me, but it’s become something harder and harder to ignore. I could live without computers (I like writing although nobody else can understand my handwriting, and I’m familiar with typewriters) and fabulous light fabrics or whatever. I don’t need a car with GPS satellite nonsense.

I do need to go back and look after my boys. I just… what the hell is keeping me here anyway? I need to go back and help my boys find their reasons to live. I know I couldn’t do it for them, but I know I could make it easier. What the hell is keeping me here? What the hell is keeping me now?

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