Breathe…

I’ve been mulling this over for a bit—I’ve been mulling over a lot of shit lately, so hang in there, I’m working things out in my head before I start spewing words all over the place, but seriously, what the fuck is going on? Facebook has gotten wicked annoying—especially since the latest election cycle, we’re so dang polarized it ain’t funny. People unfriending each other over petty shit-fuck opinions—for which we are all entitled to have. GAH! Fine, be that way, right? Not much of a friend, I guess. I let it go. Some philosopher once said something about “Hell is other people.” (I think I said this before, same shit different poem, but this isn’t a poem, it started that way and then just wasn’t anymore.) I hate feeling that way—it shouldn’t be like that at all. It sucks. There are days I can scream my eyeballs out, but that does no good for me or anyone within range, so I don’t. When I do venture into Facebook to wish friends/family happy birthday, I try to post positive shit—happy shit.

Puppies and kittens.

Horses and donkeys.

Goats, baby goats, why are they so fucking cute? They just are absurdly adorable.

Whatever.

Then I post the occasional collection of photos I’ve taken of stuff. Moments from my life frozen in pictures that will be cued up later by the whatever thing that does that—6 years ago, 5 years ago today, four years ago, three years ago today, two years ago, one year ago today. Sometimes the photo is a reminder of something painful, a loss of a loved one. The result of a wreck. Fuck, even some of my own news isn’t good.

Except, I’m okay.

I’m still here.

Until I’m not.

Someday we’re all going to die. Cheery, huh? Fuck. (Sorry, I had to throw that in.)

When I see you there (the generic you, hi you!) I give you the thumbs up, hearts, and whatever emoji that applies (I’m always happy to see you.) Really I wish people would stop dying, all these icons of my childhood and young adulthood—it just fucking reminds me that I’m not getting any younger. There are times I’m feeling left behind, I can’t keep up with it. My physical therapist broke his phone last week, and was lost without it. He didn’t even know the phone numbers of people he needed to get in touch with, and couldn’t remember his IPhone password—that sucks. So he took his frustration out on my shoulder (or maybe not, it just felt that way, I have frozen shoulder of all things, jeez it hurts), but it’s getting better, I’m able to reach back and touch my fingers now, just a few days ago I couldn’t, so progress is being made. It’s terrible that I can’t remember phone numbers either. I can remember numbers that don’t matter anymore. I still remember my parent’s phone number, my in-laws phone number, my grandparent’s phone number (they’re all dead.) My first apartment’s phone number. My sister’s phone number (her landline, not her cellphone number.) My best friend Amy’s phone number when she used to live down the street when we were little kids, half the time we wouldn’t say anything, just breathing, and after awhile my mom would say, “Just tell her you’ll meet her halfway in the woods, and work out what you’re going to do from there!” (Oh, mom.)

It’s a novelty to get outside and walk just to walk and not have a gadget. Looking, seeing. The fresh air makes me sleepy; relaxed. (That’s telling me something.) Right now, I don’t know where my phone is—don’t care.

Oh, there it is, next to me. (I just gave it the stink eye.)

Yes, I do have my laptop (some of the letters are worn off, and some of the keys don’t work right without smacking them.) I do need to get to doing something else. A poe-em or something. Or something-thing. Things. Things to do.

This latest by Moby is quite special in its scary way—thought it needed a spot right here:

I need to remember to breathe.

Keep breathing.

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