My dear friend, 'damsel',
At this time of a day which has been long, ( as I'm still most ill ), has proven to be one remarkably free of anything purposeful that I might otherwise have contemplated, and...maybe done. All I did--dear--was exist--which I guess beats the alternatives. But the question still begs an answer.
What do we as nominal personalities have to do to, in effect, earn our keep as so-called individuals with perhaps decrepit bodies, and clouded minds, but, still, with some idea to make of each day a day worth while.
Were we kind? Did we help another find his or her way? Did we comfort or feed a child, stop to assist someone elderly? Or, did we--instead--pass away the gloom of another long, long day, measured only by our ragged inhalations?
It is thus easy to confuse one day with the next, and...why not, as theye begin to run together like a water color picture, but without the definition, or the clarity.
This is not an exciting life. It is, rather, and eat, bathroom, computer, eat, sleep cycle of monumental unimportance.
And--of course--I am in an assorted agony of pain, congestion, and lack of volition.
Often, I am most heartily ashamed to have to beg for services for which there is always NO money.
And, as afternoon passes into evening, into the inevitability of night, heralding yet another day too soon upon us, what have we to say for ourselves?
So subtle it is, my dear friend, how dreams unravel, and die. And--in consequence--how little we seem to care about it.
I DO have a quiet, little house, dear 'damsel', and since the volume on my comuter is turned down, and Daisy is quiet, as is the neighborhood, I think that I---too--would like to don my best pajamas, and crawl gratefully into a freshly made bed, and would probably doze until the middle of the night. Should I--perhaps--lift dear Daisy into the bed with me; could she then get down without assistance?
Let us say that I am depressed, and miserable. Let us further say that I feel numb ( except for pain ), and so feel nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.
I passed resentment, earlier, with my last, uncontroled coughing fit. I feel both sweated and chilled.
I have no one to love me, nor could I expect such devotion to what amounts to being an old and ugly,in more need of a nursemaid, than a true companion.
I often feel as if I'm sitting at a deli counter, holding a ticket upon which is written the 'sideways eight'...infinity.
No wonder I am sometimes afraid to go to bed at night, though my sometime afternoon naps produce no such nightmare, no such fear.
"Real-time" friends are so few, I'd have to Google-Earth them. And why not? They have their own lives, into which I have been most marginally scripted. But, funny..that's the way of it.
At least four times--today--I have dipped into the well of pain medications;; but they will not cure pneumnia, now of three week's duration. Nor, will they tidy-up a broken heart.
My SSDI is just a tease income; my $16.00 a month in food stamps just baffles me, for who can eat a seventeen cent meal? When did I gladly sacrifice fun for quiet, and reliable safety? Not even little goblins rattle my front door knob. And the mail was--as usual--an assemblage of junk, fliers, and bills I cannot pay.
Have I quite forgotten how to laugh?
My fourteen year old dog, Daisy, comes up to me to put her head on my knee; her brown eyes are so large, so inquiring. She cannot tell me where she hurts. I dont know who needs consoling most. I love her frightfully, clinging to another life in the house.
We both ate Banquet spaghetti dinners, a buck a piece; I gave her all my meatballs save one.
Soon time to dose up again. There is a pain that NO medication will touch.
I used to be a person; now, everyday is like being on 'house arrest'. Damn the Lupus. Damn the Fibro. Double damn with sugar on top, the Agoraphobia.
Yes, dearest 'damsel' the bed DOES have its allure, for I am tired, and...tired of it.
But shit...it was never my intention to invade your pleasant thread by pissing in the soup, and making of this a rant. I am so so sorry, dear. For, if you cannot forgive, please forget. These typed kilobytes will all too soon pass away, as they should.
Heck, I'll probably use this someway in a diary post; nothing wasted. Nothing lost.
Please do take care, my friend. Stay special, safe, and proud. Daisy would only want it that way.
