Monday, August 25, 2014

The Insurance Policy.

I'm doing it tough.  I'm doing it more than tough.  I'm barely breathing on the inside - though I keep taking those pesky breaths of real oxygen on the outside.  I don't see this as an achievement or an accomplishment. I see it as a cowardly act, to keep breathing in and out.  Cowardly, because it's easy.  I mean, of COURSE it's not easy at all. It's excruciating.  I mean that physically too.  Some days it physically hurts to keep breathing in and out.  I don't know why I keep doing it.  I am a useless apparatus.  A defective robot left on the conveyor belt.  The accidental and excess dot that people unknowingly add to the end of an ellipsis.  But easy, because it means changing nothing. How does one stop breathing anyway?  Do you just hold your breath?  I don't even know.  Easier not to think and just keep doing it.

I have an insurance policy.  49 of them. I counted.  It's there, just in case.  I think about it a lot.  I think about the trapdoor in the sun.  I think about how if things could be better they would be.  They just would be.  Even the changes I make and those have been significant haven't brought dividends at all.  I wonder how is it that I even got here.  Alice followed the rabbit but I don't remember following anything at all.  I just got here - this realisation, this excruciating, horrible, terrible space where everything about me is completely wrong.  It's not a new space.  It's the realisation of what was always there.

This is it.  Deal with it.  This is the best it will ever be.  You can only depend on yourself.  You are useless.  If you were something, you'd be it. You are nothing.

And I am. I know.

This is the playlist on repeat in my brain.  It's the playlist that even on shuffle makes complete sense.  It's proven and researched and even experts agree.  It's just true.

Of course on the outside. I get up. I smile.  I go to work. I crack jokes.  I cope, amazingly.  Horribly, with a sledgehammer to my heart and head and body every time I take a step but I'm sure it doesn't matter.  I cope, even when I say I don't.  I am ignored even when I tell my colleagues that I am not coping.

But I have an insurance policy.  49 of them.