You wanted words. Here then, are words.
My father was a solid man, with a solid profession. He was a brick layer by trade and he was by nature as solid, unmoving and enduring as the buildings he helped to construct. But every now and then, when whiskey loosened his tongue, he would share an idea that seemed totally at odds with his pragmatic, sensible and down to earth nature. He claimed that the Monsters were cursed. He suggested that no matter how good our intentions, how well prepared or educated we were, how much the odds were stacked in our favour, no good would come of our endeavours. It seemed a fanciful and foolish notion to me as a child. And yet, and yet, and yet… Here I am, the better part of three decades later with nothing to show for my life. All those years I’ve played by the rules, I’ve made what seemed like the right decisions, lived my life neither by heart nor mind alone but steered a course between the two. Every decision I made looked like the right one given the information available at the time and yet here I am. Alone. Depressed. Hopeless. Trapped. Desperate. Despairing. Cursed?