2017 was looking to be the year to start afresh, to be determined to get somewhere in life. Or have a life. But I’m less than what I was before. And it’s more than just my left arm (which is in more pain now); and it’s more than having real-life relationships with people outside of family.
It’s what’s required to make it all work, and I don’t have it. I’m seeing myself with nothing to my name, and I have nothing going for me. I have to care for myself, but I’m just too tired. I’m not connected— not sincerely, and I know, deep down I’m a sad individual. And the more I pass the time, the worse it gets. I spit out words, and entertained instead of lived, until all I could do was post photographs.
I’m empty and aching, and I do know why.
I imitate. Imitation is easier, versus the impossible of creating in a void. I live in isolation and neglect, where usefulness often fails to connect.
The upside to creating things while borrowing from others, is that I’ve enabled myself, and made progress. Dreams and experiments, explored and complemented. But I’m tired.
It’s that dilemma where you need help from others to take the next step, but the connection is never enough, or you’re too much of a drain on the connections you have. Inadequacy and lack of history (not to mention: filth)… lack of being makes what’s difficult for others impossible for me. They struggle; I merely exist.
And now I’m once again angered because I have to prepare myself without any help and I just don’t have time. In fact, I’m going to be late to the Saturday group meeting… if I show up at all, because I don’t have a ride as I’m editing this.
The anger makes me think I’m grieving the loss of my life. And maybe I’ve already said that before. …I’m not tired of life. But living with what I have is not living, that’s for sure.
The Dependent Independent 