We are supposed to learn from our mistakes… supposed to adjust… no fucking hope there. It’s the same shit every fucking time. There’s no chance for me now. I’m going to lose. I want to be OK with that… but I’m not. I will fight with my only weapon: a broken learning-curve.. no fucking hope… no fucking hope.
Spotted through the rear window of an ambulance in transit the old man reclined on a gurney with an oxygen mask. It was Tuesday morning and my knee was swollen and packed in ice to weather another day of humping product through the grocery maze. He looked at ease and the lights on the ambulance weren’t flashing. Nevertheless he was having a much worse day than I could imagine and now my knee hurt a little less.
How long must I wait for brief moments of unaltered euphoria? Longer now as time goes on. Landmarks of prior moments litter my memories: Birth of my child; saturated with sound at a concert…. Too few now. In my youth I lived bathed in euphoria, like an endless desert sun… baking my soul with mind rattling consciousness. I owned the world… or a piece of it. The desert is still here… but that sun is harsh and that euphoria, the constant periods of joy, are few and unoften. I am either numb or drifting off.
In the dream the end-times had come in the form of zombies… and society was losing. I had a shotgun, of course, and the remnants of the army needed all the hands they could get. The only remaining officer was a chaplain. As he handed me a box of shells, he pointed to a larger box, full of the same, and said, “You’d better hold this door for us, and get right with the Lord.” I glanced around, the hallway was crowded with desperate faces. He turned to go, I grabbed his arm and spun him back. “The Lord? “ I said, with indignation, “People are dying, and you’re worried about the Lord?” He looked at me with eyes burnt by endless waking terror and said, “People are dying, and it’s the dead who are doing the killing… of course I’m worried about the Lord.” I chambered a shell and watched him leave. I turned, to the heaving door that seperated sunrise from sunset… Then my alarm clock chimed and that world slid quietly away
I use we when I speak of me. I am often at odds within myself. It is a struggle and heavy load to make it work each day. I speak to myself (in full conversation which worries the natives) and this somehow gets me through. We have to go, now, the day is moving and I want to be on it.
We have been asked (repetedly) not to judge the religion by its most extreme adherents. We tried to comply. We tried even as we mocked our own for the foibles of a few. But if every tenth (or fifteenth or twentieth) bite from the proverbial apple is rotten or sickening or deadly then the whole cart is suspect too. It then becomes worth, at the very least, a wary eye and a cautious proceeding in the going forward.
The homeless guy has it all wrong: his sign is far too perfect, his mastery of kerning is awesome, his hand too steady, his font too clear to inspire pity or concern. Rather I am envious of his dedication to his craft his obvious joy in his work. He has a purpose in his message that shines through… I gave up long ago.