Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time I would walk into a business and they would greet me by name. If they didn’t know my name, they’d extend their hand in a handshake and tell me theirs. Then I’d tell them my name. They’d ask me . . . yes ME . . . what they could help me with.

No one wanted to know my account number. They didn’t ask my date of birth.

Most places now only know me by my account number  . The rest of them know me as my date of birth.

I might as well be a prisoner. Instead of prisoner number so and so, I am citizen (maybe, maybe not) number so and so.

People say change is good, but it isn’t.

They say you might not remember exacly what someone did, but you will remember how they made you feel.

 

How Much?

How much do people really care about each other? They claim they do. When someone they say they care about dies, they carry on like it’s the end of their world. Yet if asked, they’ll admit they miss the person’s smile, or their being there, or whatever it was they managed to get from that person, but they never say they miss that person being able to enjoy life again.

People are mostly selfish creatures. What they miss, what their ultimate agendas are . . . mostly are for themselves.

I wish it hadn’t taken me so many years to understand what people truly mean when they say they love you. They love what you do to improve their lives.

When you’re old and have nothing left to give, you find out how people really feel about you.