The Rhythm

Yesterday's entry was NOT what I meant to write when I started out. It took off in an independent way that surprised even me.
Although, while my fingers were flying and I was wondering what the heck, the words and feelings coming up were true and honest and deeply felt.
That is why I let it stand.

But the faint persistent rhythm I had in mind was the daily rhythm of my life; perhaps my circadian rhythm.

The day begins around 4 when I am finishing up work. Home and playing on the computer, sometimes writing, until 6 or 7, depending on mood, fatigue, and insomnia.
Awake at 8 to make sure Hailey is getting started on getting ready for school. Most days I am mire observer than participant in this ritual, but some days I am fully involved.
Then, if Warren is still sleeping or sleepy, I can get some sleep. Depending on Warren, who loves to play with his mammaw, this can last to anywhere between 10 and 12.
About 2 I start feeling tired again and sometimes can nap, but usually not.
4 is time for Hailey to get home and I try to be awake for that, just so she knows I care.
5 is average suppertime, and time to eat and sleep.
7:15 time to get ready for work, which usually starts at 8.

I have tried to sleep through these days, or sometimes remain awake through them so that I can dramatically collapse at work or in the middle of a store, but I'm a darned failure at that type of self serving drama. The confounded infernal, persistent rhythm takes over and keeps me living my (somewhat boring; somewhat routine) life.

I don't like it.
Don't want it.
But there it is.

No Rhyme, but a Faint Persistent Rhythm

No reason.
No Rhyme.
No sense.

But, through it all, a rhythm persists. The emotional equivalent of a heartbeat. It may be slow and troubled. It may be clamorous. It may be nothing more than there, but it persists.

I watched my husband die. He couldn't breathe anymore, not effectively. But that big ol' strong loving heart of his kept on beating, in spite of everything else in him shutting down.

What a waste that was, once death was inevitable, and of his choosing. (He could have been kept alive, by a machine breathing for him. But being alive and living are two different (too different) things, and if he couldn't live, why remain artificially alive?)

But his heart didn't get that message, and it continued on.

That is where I am, emotionally.
I am worn out,
I am tired.
The joy is gone.
The curiosity us gone.
The drive is gone.

What remains is a beating heart, prolonging the torture of a nonexistent existence.

There is no life support machine for my dying parts (although grandchildren come close) and I'm not so certain I would choose a tethered artificial life anyway. Probably not.

Perhaps there is hope for a cure, or a remission. Some part must think so.
Too bad it isn't a part that knows anything.
Perhaps it is just a reluctance to leave the known for the unknown. Or just wanting to remain where we know love.

Whatever it is, the beat goes on.
Even when there is no hope.

No Reason

I hate my life.

I hate waking up every day.
I hate going through the motions of living life.

I just want to sleep.
I just want to rest.
I just want left.

There's no real reason for this feeling.

It isn't a lack of gratitude or appreciation. There are a lot of things I am grateful for , and there are many things I love about my life.

I have a roof over my head and people who love me.
I have a darling monkey boy who grabs the back of my shirt, pulls himself up my back, and throws his skinny little arms around my neck. Those are the best hugs ever, and I don't think life could give me anything better than that.

I have food and a job and probably more financial freedom right now than I have ever had.

But day after day, I wake up.
And I just don't want to.

I'm tired of it.

Oddservation: My Sister's Voice.

At my work, we have and use towel buckets.
The white towel buckets say in red lettering, "Clean Towels in Sanitizing Solution."
The gray buckets with black lettering say "Soiled Towels"

As is common, on the opposite sides of the buckets the same info is repeated in Spanish.
"Toallas Limpias" and "Toallas Succias"

Limpias I get. Same root word as limpid, meaning clear/transparent.
Succias I don't get. I can't think of any similar word in English. Whatever the root may be, it does make the use of the word "suck" or "sucky" seem reasonable. Just non-English.

The thing is, every time I see these Spanish equivalents on the buckets, I hear my sister.
I hear her say, "Give me one of those limp-ass towels."
I hear her say, "Here's a sucky-ass towel."

Yes, I have a sister who would say that. It's just how she is.

It bothers me sometimes. Her voice ordering my towels and buckets around is not something I need at the end of my working day.

But it's there.