We’re almost at the end of 2015 and I know I’m not the only to notice that it seemed to go by quickly. Almost everyone I speak to says, “where did it go?” I used to think it was only older people who felt time going quickly, but now I’m noticing it happening. Wait, maybe I’m old now?

I’m not complaining though. 2015 has been a horrible year, for a lot of people besides myself. Not only have we had terrorism all over the world but many people I know have experienced personal anguish of many kinds during this year. I’m no exception to this unfortunately. I’ve had, and am still having, problems with the benefit system here in the UK. I still don’t know if I’m going to be receiving any of the benefit I’m due. I seem to be coming up against one total fuck up after another and I don’t see why I should have to fight just to get what I’m entitled to. I’ve been living on nothing since 20th October and if it weren’t for the generosity of some of my wonderful facebook friends, the cats and I would have starved by now.

The byword for this past year is Loser. It is during this past twelve months that I have been forced to face up to the fact that I am a total loser in every respect. Looking back over my life, I have failed to succeed in every single thing I’ve tried. It is not due to lack of trying either, an accusation my mother laid at my door just the other day. I have given time and effort, and often money, into many different hobbies, crafts, and entrepreneurial pursuits, and have failed in them all.

Since June 2011, I have been writing novels and short stories and now have a backlist of twelve books, with another finished to first draft and yet another half written. All have failed to sell and still nobody is interested in my work. I have tried doing free giveaways, one facebook release event I arranged garnered the impressive attendance of just 2. I am now experiencing the painful trauma of realising that I am wasting my time publishing and probably should not bother doing so again. When I say painful, I mean it. Failing at this is the most painful thing of my entire life so far. I cannot adequately explain how much I want to be a successful novelist, and to fail so spectacularly is a burden that is too much to bear.

It is very strange to go through one’s daily existence devoid of emotional connection to one’s conscious being. To be unable to ‘feel’ anything makes the process of daily existence much like a hamster running on a wheel. One runs but never gets anywhere. It is not simply the joy that has gone, but the meaning itself, the point, the raison d’etre.

I am just one of scores who feel this way at the end of 2015 and many pseudo spiritual hanky wafters would say there’s some kind of great shift in consciousness going on, no doubt engineered by the great ones over at the Pleiades or other such spiritual masters. Poppycock. We’re sick of life the way it is, end of story.

I go into 2016 with no hope for good fortune or other rosy pink fluffy wonderfulness. As with all the others who feel as I do, I’m just glad another year is over and sure that the next one will be as dire as the last. I can’t wait for the asteroid.

Good riddance 2015.