When you reach the last turn before the end of the road, you have to wonder if everything you did was for a purpose. I never married and have no children and my forty-ninth birthday is fast approaching. I'm not expecting to live much longer anyway because my body is unspeakably mis-shapen and racked with pain from decades of overindulgence, lethargy and generally dysfunctional genes that disqualify me for natural selection on the grounds of hair loss, psoriasis, acne, metabolism, disproportionately short legs-to-torso ratio, arthritis and a small penis.
My adopted mother is expected live well beyond a hundred years. She is in her seventies and still plays tennis. I expect her to outlive me by at least twenty years. I wonder what her motivation is? I can't seem to find any motivation at all to continue. She must get something out of life, I don't know what. Every step I take every minute of the day is uphill for me.
When you reach the point in your life where you can see the end, you contemplate all the things you did while you were alive and whether or not it got you anywhere. To me it seems like it was all a huge waste of time.
I feel good occasionally when something I post on Facebook or Google+ gets accolades in the form of likes or pluses. Those are the only venues upon which I can rest my validation anymore. Silent anonymous mouse-clicks in my favor might as well be a nudge from someone next to me in bed, I wouldn't know the difference, but I know it's not enough to cause me to flail about in ecstasy.
For days I sit in my silent apartment trying to think of something, anything! I'm stuck in a meditation loop. The noises around me, the droning of the refrigerator, the birds, the traffic, echo through the dark chasm of my mind, but there is an undertone of ever-present anxiety. Something is wrong. I'm forgetting something. I don't hear the approaching footsteps of the drill instructor, there is none, but nevertheless the expectation remains. The shadows of moving police officers in full armor are never cast across my closed window shades. No battering ram and flash-bang grenades for me. At least that would be some form of recognition if anything I ever did mattered to anyone at all.
I could read news but it's so trite.Same with the radio. Talk-radio is a broken record.More people making the same mistakes over and over again. Every few years or so the same topics are raised over and over: Child discipline, banning one thing or legalizing another, should there be a summer break from school, school lunch nutrition, violence and video games, on and on.
My feet and knees hurt when I stand, my butt hurts when I sit, my back hurts when I lie down. Alcohol makes me sick more than it makes me drunk. Pills don't work. I would leave the apartment and go outside for a while, if I had a reason strong enough to overwhelm my anxiety.
My feet and knees hurt when I stand, my butt hurts when I sit, my back hurts when I lie down. Alcohol makes me sick more than it makes me drunk. Pills don't work. I would leave the apartment and go outside for a while, if I had a reason strong enough to overwhelm my anxiety.
