It’s 1:51 pm Friday. I am getting into bed. Wearing the attempt I had at 10 am to go for a run and have a day that might include more than one item from the to do list.
I’m going to disappoint myself yet again.
It’s time for bed. Time to give in and admit defeat.
I lose Friday. It is taken. Collateral damage to the price of Sunday through Thursday. The day that the lord needed to rest. The human equivalent of Monday morning disease the work horses of the early 1900s faced. When men went to work in the factories from Mon through Friday and arrived home to plow a field sat and Sunday. The consequences were horses that tied up by Monday. You have to pace yourself to avoid the painful reality that you are not the athlete you once were.
The current anguish of my body is this. Everything is worn out. The stuffing is misplaced. The blood isn’t carrying oxygen to the eyelids. They hang like old velvet drapes of a widows cave. Too cumbersome to open. Too frail to collect the edges and fasten in place. They have given up hiding the frosted lens that only seees shadows and ombré.
The week is a blur of still images slowed to a pause. The names, diseases and dilemmas have all bled together. I ask myself the same questions. I don’t know if I can answer truthfully to most of them hem any longer.
Yes I did my best.
No I didn’t abandon anyone other than myself.
Yes I might be burnt.
No I don’t want your advice. Maybe this isn’t the bottom.
Yet.
And still the world goes on around me. Inspite. Or despite. I have no intentions that I can write down and hold fast too. Just the music of a dance I taught myself long ago. I make the same motions on the same stage. Day after day. Expecting something to be different and never changing any pieces. The definition of insanity fueled by longing within the chaos. A poet or the muse? Does anyone know? Is there any point in asking?
I’ll get dressed again tomorrow. Tie the slippers. Don the robe and smile once more in the sunshine that skips on repeat.
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| Frippie |
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