It’s everywhere around us. We like to distract ourselves with insipid dumbfuckery like television or internet because it takes us out of our own heads for a bit. Make no mistake though, you are going to die. Me too. The circumstances of how are variable, but the ultimate truth remains. Nothing is permanent.
Some like to think we live on in the legacy we leave behind. But all that too shall cease to be. Some entertain the idea of reincarnation. This is actually a more logical view if one thinks of the laws of conservation of energy and mass. The universe is a holistic system of systems on astronomical and microscopic levels.
All speculation aside, I believe that life has a purpose. At least I badly want to. I think of these things often, frequently to the point of madness. As I get older and more weathered a single thought flashes through my head and it is ‘What do you have to show for all this time?’. It eats at my sanity like a steady but determined trickle of water slowly creating caverns of isolation.
I’m thirty-three. It’s much farther than I ever thought I would make it to. In those years I’ve had many an opportunity to make something worthwhile out of my life. All squandered. Now I work at a brain dead burrito joint with people half my age for a hair above minimum wage. The fact that I’m sane enough for the working world is a matter up for debate.
That aside, I thought I’d be doing at least somewhat better by now. I was on disability for bipolar disorder for nearly five years. I feel like I really regressed during that time. Now I’m supposedly ‘better’ given that social security cut me off. But I’m not better. My plastic face is just a bit more polished.
The thing that hurts the most is being told I’m way too functional to need help. I’m not talking about money. I mean that I’ve been committed three times and every time my brain became a bit more fuzzy and scrambled. Staying out of institutions is not the end goal in itself. What I need help with are life and organization skills for one.
I need to see a doctor or therapist more than every three or four months for fifteen minutes. That’d be super.
Most of all I need a vacation. I can’t remember my last one after the last sixteen years of killing myself to ‘make it’. I still don’t know what’s wrong with my arm but I went back to kitchen work because no one else will even consider hiring me and two months unemployed has damn near ruined me.
I’m just goddamned tired. At least one day I’ll finally be old and battered and useless enough that the state will let me have some peace. Yeah, right.