Wednesday, October 16, 2019

OctPoWriMo 2019: Day 16: Harried to the Grave

Image by fancycrave1 from Pixabay

it does not matter
matter one measure if
if you measure your time
time on an Apple watch
watch your time on an old
old beat-up analog tick-tick 
tick-tick the sound
sound as time is running out
out of your wasting life
life where triumphs come
come slowly and don't seem
seem to stick around at all
all the while your life is wasting
wasting away fast as a wish
wish you would stop
stop giving away 
away all your me time
time to see time as
as a commodity time
time does not come free
free time does not align
align with being a successful
successful mess who never
never ever stops
stops to wind her old watch
watch time slip away 
away until one day 
day when there are
are no more days
days are numbered from the first
first moment you take a breath
breath that leads to death
death comes for us all
all of us must fall
fall back into the time
time when time didn't matter 
matter meant nothing
nothing meant anything
anything was possible
possible dreams
dreams become schemes
schemes become obsession
obsession consumes life
life becomes lie
lie down and die
die and become
become as you were before earth
earth before your birth 
birth
earth

~Cie~



Note:
I was always one of those "I'll sleep when I'm dead" kinds of people. I worked long hours at physically taxing jobs. I worked long weeks filled with long hours. I was proud of being able to push myself well past the limits. 
My diabetes got worse, I had a small stroke, and I had a severe injury to the median nerve in my left arm. My ability to work long hours at physically difficult jobs was gone forever. At the point when I had a small stroke, I was fired from my job as a home health nurse.
I live with fairly frequent suicide ideation, but the actual planning levels are pretty low as a rule. After I was fired, I started making plans to commit suicide because I felt like the world's worst fuck-up, like without my job I was nothing. 
This is not going to be one of those "oh, but I'm so glad I didn't because I found God, got down to a single-digit pants size, somehow started looking half my age, married GQ Cover Model Guy, and now my life is a Hallmark Channel movie" stories. 
Nah.
Still a crabby, fat, romanceless, agnostic, middle-aged, broke-ass curmudgeon. Still would be homeless if it wasn't for my son's kindness. 
But I am glad I didn't commit suicide because if I had I wouldn't have been able to help my son get this house, and I wouldn't have found me.
Me is kind of an asshole, but we're on better terms these days now that I've had the time to get to know her a little.
Also, I have a feeling that sometimes those Hallmark Channel happy crappy stories about pretty people hooking up and living happily ever after might even make some people depressed. Like, you know, me. I think some people may need to know that an old crabby fat bitch learned that old, crabby, fat bitches have something to offer too without changing one fucking thing about themselves.



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