Forword One’s life is a series of heavy curtains, each one lifted sometimes ponderously slowly, with a crack of emerging light seeking you with its tentacles. Lifted at other times, so fast that if you blinked, you could miss the unveiling. One could ponder an outside force pulling the levers at unexpected times, controlling whether these events constrain or set free forward movement. Each curtain lifted reveals new challenges, like fortress walls that must be scaled before advancing. Events and times that surround you, measure you, and endocrine thinking in your struggle to grow and survive—a continuing challenge to define beginnings and endings. One could claim that for many years you are but a prisoner, held with other prisoners and other guard keepers you know and see each day, cellmates waiting for parole from the overseers that shape and mould your early years. Your guards, influencers on your journey, their demons masking as shadows, are always present, even in the absence of light, whispering to them of prejudices, beliefs, and their moral compass. For years, chastised or punished for not following or questioning the path they set for themselves, they now choose for you. When we are young, we cannot lightly challenge the words of wisdom of those who are our caretakers, as they should not be wrong…they cannot be wrong! Recently, I went to see the movie Song Sung Blue starring Kate Hudson and Hugh Jackman. I was not born with a quiet mind. It is too often flooded with incoming flaming arrows of ideas, thoughts, and what-ifs. This movie tells the story of two people, Lightning and Thunder, who struggle as bandmates while singing Neil Diamond songs. On the screen, so many challenges, in vivid detail, the highs and lows of life in full colour on a wide screen, laid bare without Band-Aids. During this movie, an idea occurred to me. Write my story. Who would want to read my story? I have written for years, mainly sales and marketing items for businesses, including one sales manual on sales techniques. Things changed for me in a big way in 1986 and 2021. Those tales of uncertainty and choices told later in this book, as I say to the story from the bottom of the hourglass, peering upwards towards the neck. For me, the need to rush to some job is no longer front and centre; this master, this ball and chain, one carries for decades, its weight heavy on your path. My three children are grown, prospering, and in stable relationships, with four grandchildren. Yet there is an ingrained restlessness not to waste the time one still has. Our lives are an hourglass, with only so much pre-measured sand scheduled to slip through the narrow opening, to fall wasted or fulfilled, resting at the bottom of the glass as the present buries the past. Not that I did not enjoy my working life. Like most, I expect some days were a real drag and too stressful. Other days, it was so good that I was sorry the day had to end. What was different for me was that for over three decades, I was in complete command, as much as one could be, of my work situation, as I owned the business. There was a long and winding road to get to this place, with many rickety, hazardous bridges. I am a Gemini. That means there are two of me…twins. Not that I am into astrology, but there are two of me. Not quite a Jekyll and Hyde relationship, at least not that I am admitting to. A husband, a father, a grandfather, a citizen, a sports fan, a writer of poetry, lyrics, and fiction. Not really religious, yet questions and voices keep whispering to me. The story of my first, yet unfinished, book, called Raquel, has some exciting religious elements and a background story. My present published book, The Lighthouse, is not without religious overtones. I have a mind that never lies still, filled with a restlessness of thoughts and ideas. I have learned patience, a quietness in listening to others, and not to judge so much. Others, too, have had their struggles and mastered them. In this, I am not alone. In this, I am not unique. For some time, I have used the phrase “challenges are opportunities… seek the opportunity and work towards it.” Positivity triumphs over negativity in my world. My life has been a series of challenges. Some of these challenges were vast chasms to be crossed. There are challenges I chose for myself…Others I did not. Some mountain tops proudly display my flag…others wait with a smirky grin hidden by thick clouds. Would I change some choices I made in the past? The honest answer would be yes, but if those choices had been made differently, what would have been the result? Chapter One A life of challenges awaits. Rise or not…the choice is yours. The wounds of time are like tattoos on my sometimes-thick shell, some very clear, well-defined, while others are kept deep hidden in my dungeons, lurking as my shadow. My life on this earth has not ended yet; my journey continues. I was told in 2019 I would be dead by 2023, gasping for every breath, taken by a disease with no known cure, so little understood about this demon that lives inside me, slowly morphing tissue into concrete I cannot see. There is a weight in this that one must deal with or not. This demon inside, I have yet to name it, is with me with every breath, walks with me with each of my steps, and most likely knows every thought. This silent contract killer, measuring its time marked with its overbearing silence, meant to haunt ghost-like as one vision at one’s end. Each doctor visit, or endless tests, CAT scans, and doctors who know too much but tell you so little in a few moments of their time. If one were to ask me what I would say about my life to date, I would respond. “I have lived a life of challenges…Some I brought forward…some cast upon me. My flag of triumph flies proudly on some high mountain ridges; on others, the peak lies unconquered and sometimes untested. I have achieved much…yet a restlessness is inside me.” These words echo forever in my chakra. A chakra forged with fire, with a young man facing dragons with no shield or sword. No scribe or king offering their wisdom. With time, one hopes that wisdom may come in reflection. The ripples, colours, and reflections in one’s pond hold stories and memories. One can choose to relive or reconsider those events at a time of your choosing or theirs, or attempt to let them sink slowly to the bottom of the pond to find solace with the sticky mud of time that one tries to shake off, tightly bound to one’s foot, carried with each step forward or backwards. I hint at a past with obstacles, but mine are the ones that many others face. In that aspect, my life is not unique, but perhaps one can find something here worth remembering or considering on their journey. These days, I continue to walk along the pathway to a door. Possibly the last door to be opened, or not. Maybe the same grey door I came upon in 2022 in Maine at that lighthouse. Today I woke to a morning not much different from so many other days. At some point, I heard the phrase… The challenges of aging begin in the morning as my eyes slowly open to streaming light. As I rise to contemplate which parts of me are functioning today, I note I am still breathing, but, as always, my left shoulder is a haunting, smirking demon, twisting a serrated knife into that joint with a smug smile. As I struggle awake… no coffee for me…never been one of my things…one of my different paths. The day’s curtain rises… There is a beginning: one new pair of eyes sees the world and what it is. Here is my beginning… my ending not yet written… a life unfinished! The Setting Like angry gods of war…the sky flashed endlessly in blood-red, throbbing veins of intense colour. The rolling thunder of heavy artillery pounded one’s ears into submission. Conceived most likely on some night in September 1952, thousands of miles away from this carnage. The world was at war once more, a more localized conflict than the massive killing fields of World War II. Chinese and North Koreans were aggressively attacking the US 3rd Army, and thunderous naval gunfire crashed on those poor souls within its deadly reach. The Battle of Bunker Hill was underway… not the same battle as the one in the US War of Independence, which took place just outside Boston in 1775. The Canadian contingent was engaged in intense combat along the Imjingang River and Hill 355. That was the news in September 1952. In Europe, they were still burying or re-interring the dead of the Second World War. On November 1, 1952, the United States blew Enewetak Atoll to essentially radioactive dust with the first hydrogen bomb. The generals and admirals smiled. The button that the demon wields has more power. In late 1952, Sarnia, Ontario, was a thriving place with the nickname the Imperial City. The petrochemical industry had latched onto the north shoreline of the St. Clair River just south of where Lake Huron empties its waters. This river was spanned by the Blue Water Bridge, completed in 1935, which connects the cities of Sarnia and Port Huron, Michigan. The Canadian cities of Sarnia and Port Huron, Michigan, are a few hundred yards apart. One could see the other on the shore that was so close, yet so far distant. One’s Walk Of 100,000 Steps One is born screaming in protest into this world. You had no choice. That choice was made for you. Steps of others by their choice to plan or roll the dice. Fresh eyes’ vision blurred shapes only a few inches away in black, white, and grey. The rest of the world is yet to emerge. One’s complete vision of the world is foggy, thick mists holding discovery back, perhaps to allow time to bear the burden of what lies ahead. By the time one is six months old, one is no longer shielded from what lies ahead; however, context remains a mystery to be solved in the steps that follow. Complete vision takes years to mature. Young eyes lifted to giants as they spoke their truths. “Why am I here?” Is my purpose to provide a measure for your life, or a simple biological calling, or a plan to develop someone who can benefit this world? Always present, this question never leaves, lurking in the shadows, under the bed, in the closet, its breath an icy breeze or warm thoughts touching you. Then there is the question… “Will you guide me on the pathway of 100,000 steps to find my grail?” A wise person sitting atop a mountain once proclaimed, “Written in the Book of Time at the day of your birth, your journey unravels to find each step in a winding staircase to Heaven’s awaiting room…choose each step with thought. Actions have consequences and words have meaning!” Perhaps with good reason, one cannot remember much from before the age of four. My first remembrance is of colouring the same picture of a pumpkin and a tree a dozen times while the teacher asked, “Why don’t you do something different?” I chose the same picture…I did not bend on my path. Then, during that same time, this serpent, black and white, some eighteen inches long, slithered out to look at me from under a cement staircase directly in front of me. I showed no fear, yet others ran away. I still question whether there was a special meaning in that moment, as my picture of that serpent remains clear and has not been found in any book on Ontario reptiles. We emerge slowly, taking our first tiny steps, then longer strides with all our decisions made by others. This must be so. Early life is regimented. We grow stronger and push boundaries as we stare at a series of unknown steps stretching infinitely into the sky. Learning to read, write, and speak in sentences forms the bones that carry our load—the times of school, bullies, and social pressure building, the measurement of our progress versus others’. Others determined that my journey to Heaven’s Waiting Room was to be fraught without a father figure. A heavy burden to carry on one’s back as the staircase of 100,000 steps takes form in front of me. At around age nine… the young brain leaps into adolescence. Before you…endless sets of stairs, some taller than others, some steeper than others… so many appear unsecured. Tilting in various directions, while the voices of the tall foreheads and blue-rinse crowd spoke in riddles of when they stepped away. I remember age nine well. I almost died of a kidney infection, probably tied to second-hand smoke. Living in a dense fog of adults hooked on a weed that spoke of the joys of nicotine was not good for me. Their choice of a thick coat wraps me every day, all day, everywhere. That fact came into play once more in later years. That same year, the sting of leather brought down with force wrapped around my hands for something the teacher’s pet had done, and she knew it. So unjust and never forgotten. A young boy stood alone, shy, undersized, and unsure, but sure not to be dominated by the view of so many stairs…so many steps to a place unknown. A risk, but would there be growth and reward? Does one so young recognize the problems faced by those tasked to guide us, or are we blind to their faults that will shape our steps? Do they realize that their faults and beliefs can become bonded to our souls? We have reached the first platform after our initial steps. An empty bench waits there… an off-ramp for those who choose this. Some previous friends have drifted away. New ones come forward…fresh voices…new opinions…some right, some terribly wrong. On this platform, we experience our first ultimate loss of someone known. Now, so many decisions about what steps — those critical next steps—we take are ours…ours alone. We think we know so much, but really, it is so little. To live with the consequences of our actions while the actions of others weigh on us. Here, there are howling winds, voices of those who disagree or only speak for their own benefit. Note that not all of us move on… take the next step to climb and carry the weight of our past with each additional step. The teenage years…so hard…so demanding…so many steps to decide. A driver’s licence, a boyfriend or girlfriend, a part-time job…money enters all thoughts. Our legs are strong; we have spring in our steps as those around us grow older and frailer. The eighteenth year after so many steps…adulthood is upon us and all of its duties and responsibilities. There is no shelter anymore from childish things, as the law now says you know better. You can be called to fight and die for your country. Here, the staircase has two forks. One is to join the workforce for good. The other is more education… a choice about which step is right. There is remembrance here. A father in a vehicle at night, drunk with others, lost to the violent impact of a train, and a family and its only son left to fend for themselves with little to no support. A girl in my grade eight class lost her life when she fell off a bike—another life taken not much later by a drunk driver—the cesspool of high school. The voices of those who offer drugs, who stand outside in a fog of nicotine, a life on a street corner or the mall, or perhaps something even more sinister, have surrounded you. Parties and youthful wildness are on full display everywhere. Mounting social pressure can take its toll. There is growing pressure as your time without financial responsibility grows shorter. Decisions that can bind you to a life of addiction forever. Some never take the next step and end up here in a heap. At eighteen, I left town, took an alternative path; a unique set of stairs…the first to try university. More steps upward, a flight of stairs to a new platform, while fighting to shed the burdens of perhaps a sketchy upbringing or times where your friends may leave deep scars. A set of stairs is complete now; no time to rest on the waiting, empty bench. I must forge my path in the world of work dominated by aging men. I have changed the names of people in my life in this story to protect them and not cause shame or regret. The events are actual, as one can remember them. Chapter Two Why would anyone want to start one’s life in this mess? The year is 1953. A child, a male child, is born without a father. Nothing more than a sperm donor. A young life constricted deep in chains of cavernous secrets. Unspeakable secrets that can see no light…forever held in a dark place, never to be shared. This ghost haunts lives. A mother who carries the burden of a partner who broke his vows, apparently more than once. This father, who risked his relationship with his wife and two children by bringing them to my mother’s best friend’s home. Deep multiple betrayals. There was a sister five years older than me. She has memories of her father…I do not. My mother was pregnant with me, and a marriage was consummated that night. There was a time in Waterloo before my time. My sister started a fire there one day with a lamp and a blanket. One day or night, my mother returned to find my father, her husband, in bed with her best friend. There bed! Mere pieces of a puzzle are discovered over time through fragments: a separation and a return to Sarnia for my mother to give birth to me in May 1953. A mere ten days before my entrance into this world…the skies changed dramatically over Sarnia. Then a storm…much more than a simple thunderstorm, leaping, an unbridled force of nature, howling demon-like across Lake Huron — exploded upon an unsuspecting town. A tornado…a tornado of significant force! Winds of 261 to 318 MPH ripped into Sarnia. Seven people lost their lives, and downtown Sarnia was a pile of twisted steel, shattered wood, crumbled block walls, with the wails of torment and broken dreams rising. Seven lives were taken too soon on that day in shocking violence, with the damage totalling over 17.6 million on that day, or 212 million today. A mere ten days later, I was born, swaddled in blankets made of the piled wreckage of a wrecked marriage and a city left in shambles. Too young to know this, but the scars my mother carried from her husband’s betrayal would carry forward for decades, imprinted on a young soul. There are moments in one’s life that resonate, echo in eternity, and sometimes carry ponderous weight forward for decades, leaving a permanent tattoo that never changes its image or colour. That tattoo can lie dormant for periods before exploding in a burning sensation to remind oneself of what it means. I remember so little before the age of three, by choice or sheer luck. Memories of an undersized young boy with whitish hair, quiet and wondering why I differed from the others at school, why my situation was different, or with whom I could play. I clearly remember the two-car garage, with only one side converted into a one-bathroom, one-bedroom rental unit. A tiny, cramped bedroom with two single beds and a crib. One chair and a black-and-white television in the living room. A kitchen that I have a memory of having a small table, along with a small stove and fridge, with no window. Before the age of three, another event shaped me. The story is that somehow boiling water spilled over both of my ankles, leaving deep scars. This event was never spoken of; only hinted at, yet I carried those visible scars forward for decades for all to see and question. An answer coming back from me with no substance, as I questioned my words, only causing more strange looks. That tiny garage was my home for the first seven years of my life—a small box constraining me…a prison of thick walls. A start, perhaps, of a book. The beginning of my life is measured in 3564 words. Time will tell if I add more; so many pages yet to be scribed and edited in months of work. One can leave a comment on socials. I have used the title “An Unfinished Life” because it says it all. Perhaps this would be some therapy. One cannot hide from the past; it will always find you. Most of what is scribed here, my secrets remain untold, only exposed in short fragments in passing, short answers that stifled conversations.  Copyright 2026 by Tom D. Welsh/Grayson Wolfe. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, or scanned and/or used in any AI format, without the express written permission of the author, Tom D. Welsh, and/or Grayson Wolfe, except as permitted by US law or Canadian copyright law.

Each day, two worlds collide. On distant horizons, unknown spirituous soldiers march forward, their lives consumed by the rising flames. Hardened steel swords strike flesh or shields. The sparks of battle shower the sky in light as the dragon’s cannons roar their flames of conquest. In the morning hours, light is victorious—those who have fallen, reincarnated. In the evening hours, darkness counterattacks. Endless battle since the beginning of time—there is no truce, no victor, only infinite war. The flags of their victories waved before fading in the breaking dawn and approaching darkness. Victory is transitory, only a few grains of time in the Book of Time. Each day in this millennium, there is light, and there is darkness. Sunrise brings welcome light, and sunset speaks of the coming darkness. In some regions and through oral history, stories are told of those who are no longer with us, who rise at sunset to celebrate the freedom found in their reflections dancing on water. The Picks believed that their brethren, slain by the Romans—who had usurped their lands—rose in vengeance. Their faces painted blue for war, blue ghosts walked the night from sunset to sunrise, punishing Roman spirits throughout the valleys and hills. Romans who never returned home, abandoned in shallow, unmarked graves, desecrated the soil. They would find no rest, no peace—a fitting justice for their sins. Ghost stories, vampires in the night, zombies, creatures under your bed... sounds in the darkness that haunt our thoughts. One shivers through the night waiting for the breaking of dawn. Throughout history, humanity has dealt with the fear of darkness - its unknown, unseen presence, often only revealed as a whisper or the breath of creeping coldness. Children hide under their beds as monsters rule their nights, and parents shoulder comfort. Those walking the streets at night shudder as they pass dark alleys with shadows where unknowns huddle and stare. We leave the perceived safety of lighted spaces to venture into the night...to bathe ourselves, free of light’s restrictions, carrying a weighted mask to be who we really are or not. The contrast between Jekyll and Hyde played out... in the waiting mysteries of a bottle or something else. The constant battle of all time... the goodness of light and the fear of darkness. Risks taken... Fools shout defiantly into the darkness... I was young once, as the shadows of night stir. I wrote a poem about the night and our relationship with it some time ago. It was called the Streets of the Night. Below is an excerpt... The mirror of our night Reflect on all the words of our time Our sunglasses shield us As the stars fight to peer inside Few gather at their watering holes Telling stories that should not be told We wander aimlessly The streets of the night Needing shelter from the coming storm Yet the night or darkness has its beauty. The night sky twinkles and winks ... a shadowy moon emerges from behind a fast-moving cloud, illuminating a path. Before us... the stillness of the night reflected on the waters before us... a mirror to your soul. There are predators in the night... that is their time... their life ... their purpose. There are predators in the light as well... some hidden, some not. One could claim that one’s life is a journey on an endless winding spiral staircase. Step one is birth, followed by the steps that transform your future and lock your past. You begin with your steps controlled by others. These are days when events beyond your control determine each step, yet you must deal with the consequences. Later, each step hesitant or made with haste, with some confidence... winds calling out, influencing your choices. Life is but a series of choices followed by thoughts of joy, peace, regret, or happiness. Some steps lead to darkness; others lead to times of light. Impossible to get each step right. A staircase has steps that go up and down, not unlike the game Snakes and Ladders, and sometimes someone turns the light switch on and off. Then the next steps are in light or darkness. One’s Steps Eyes so young strain to realize What lies before in the steps to come A staircase rises to the heavens Or falls to the depths of hell Each step is a pressure point In a life of many choices What is done... cannot be untied Happiness and opportunity may shine Or regret that holds one in chains At the end of my steps One may envision going back in time All my steps lay bare before me. Judgement, they say... comes to all. I have said many times that my life is a swirling sea of challenges... Many I chose, and some chose me. Others were a burden placed on me. Some I conquered with my flag marking my rise to that peak.... some lie dormant still lurking.... waiting... others will never see my flag... I have moved on. In my book, *The Lighthouse* (available now), I address themes of significant loss, atonement for past wrongs, life challenges, and deliverance from dark times. There can be growth and redemption from the chaos and mistakes of one’s past. Those who face difficulties in life may find their spirits blended with the colours of the next sunrise, conquering the roaring dragons of their time to find life and fulfilment once more. The waters of life are not always turbulent... a stillness comes when you are ready. Below is the introduction to The Lighthouse. The Seas Before Tonight, it continued unabated. A dark, daunting ritual of the past few months, lying alone in a bed tethered to a hidden room. The steady, hypnotic spin of my companion — this ceiling fan — marks the endless passage of my time. Its gentle breeze washes over, its buzz a metronome marking the music of its time. The fan’s long, thin, silver chain dangles, its links catching in the moonlight. Before me, its hypnotic sway meant to adjust the speed or, perhaps, to mesmerize me with its rhythmic tinkling. I’m wondering aloud, as I need to speak to someone, as my friends are a dry desert right now. “If I pull it three times, each tug would be an attempt to erase my past errors. Two quick pulls and, hopefully, the memories of the past few months would leave like smoke, leaving behind only a hazy trace. Is that possible?” My second book, scheduled for release in spring 2026, examines the interplay between light and darkness in this world. It tells the story of two witches who battle through centuries to maintain a balance between light and darkness, good and evil. Here... subject to endless editing is the first paragraph... As the sunset brushed the sky with its vibrant hues, a man of a thousand years posed a profound riddle for humanity. How does one escape the relentless cycle of mundane days? This morning, as the day’s light finds me, I hid behind cheap sunglasses with bullseye bloodshot eyes, staring at the riddle taped haphazardly with yellowing plastic tape to my noisy refrigerator. Seeking some relief and less stale air, I ventured to sit on the worn, stained concrete steps that mark the entrance to this place. Their coolness and bleakness reflect my morning. I am a victim today ... of my grave decisions. Bored out of my skull yesterday, dazed and confused like always, I accepted an invitation. This weakness rose once more from the shallow depths inside me. Now I pay the price on the front steps of my apartment building, alone with my pain as my head spins. I need water or perhaps more hair of the dog. To all, each new day brings the light of day and the darkness of night, showcasing both humanity’s cruelty and goodness. It is said that some things never change—history often feels like a continuous cycle, like a movie filled with flames and rippling peaceful ponds. The Sun Always Shines As I strolled on the beach one day Caressed by a sunrise My soul reached out In welcome that day Off to my right, There was a great commotion A dumpster fire of smoke and fire Trying to usurp the sunrise Hmmm... I spoke Looks like just another day More shit is coming down To contend with each day Life is too short Sometimes, friends are too few. Each day is a blessing If I only approach it that way Each sunrise is a start Of a new day The possibilities are endless If I think the right way One can consider the world a mess Let it mess with my head No, that is not a path I choose A challenge to thrive in the lighted way There is goodness all around To open my eyes each morning As the light’s magic flows inside The peace of sunrise is my shadow I walk in its footsteps, always beside A hand holding tight to mine Life is too short Sometimes, friends are too few. Each day is a blessing If I only approach it that way Each sunrise is a start Of a new day The possibilities are endless If I think the right way If I feel the right way When my last sunset comes I walk to find joy in its bright light My spirit is free To walk forever in the light Tom D. Welsh Copyright 2025. All rights reserved.