Coffee.

Seems I’ve hit an all time low. Is it a this time of year thing? I really hope so. I think it’s cyclical. I think there’s a pattern. When my happiness levels bottom out it usually coincides with the peak of winter. The weather is so perfectly antisocial right now. It’s not even playing by the rules which is making it even more so. Going all bi-polar. Petulant spoiled brat. Easy now; projecting? This is the part that I spend tearing it all apart. Giving up. Everything is just so meh. Is there any hope. Can there ever be. Is there really any point to keep trying. Etc.

It’s so tempting to collapse in a heap. To agree with concerned relatives that you aren’t being yourself, that help is needed. To sit opposite a therapist and accept what they have to offer in the form of a prescription. An easy cure. During times like this things can get intense. At a loss for what is the cause of this of course it is the face of a loved one that eventually gets put on it. You, this person that I love, that I assume loves me, loves me enough to forgive me lashing out at you. Because lashing out at something, someone, is what I need today.

Except patience comes with a limited amount of mileage. And the need is a two-way street. It gets hard to see clearly when so much lashing out goes on, during so much of a head-on collision. And so effort at work goes to sh!t. Exercise is neglected. Garden abandoned. Pets ignored. Cleaning forgotten. All the while the mind continues with its downward spiral. Slips and slides out to somewhere that is just beyond the ability of control. Out to that place where everything seems worthless. Where there is no use trying to try anymore. Where there is no use clinging to the idea of hope. Where any idea of tunnels and light seems absurd, so too any reason why anything might make sense.

The Final Cut
@ Pink Floyd Lyrics; (Paranoid Eyes ~ Pink Floyd);
“Button your lip. Don’t let the shield slip.
Take a fresh grip on your bullet proof mask.
And if they try to break down your disguise with their questions
You can hide, hide, hide,
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you three blacks, and play you for five…”
“Ta! You was unlucky there son”
“Time gentleman!”
Behind paranoid eyes.You put on your brave face and slip over the road for a jar.
Fixing your grin as you casually lean on the bar,
Laughing too loud at the rest of the world
With the boys in the crowd
You hide, hide, hide,
Behind petrified eyes.

You believed in their stories of fame, fortune and glory.
Now you’re lost in a haze of alcohol soft middle age
The pie in the sky turned out to be miles too high.
And you hide, hide, hide,
Behind brown and mild eyes.

“Oi!””

Nope.

Visualize your extinction instead. Beg for it to come. Work those angles of suspicion. Those parts of you that seem most likely to betray you; eventually. What’s that lump? What’s that sensation of discomfort? Is that where it will start? There’s no concern at this point, just a twinkle of relief. I wonder if this is what it’s like for anyone at first. That point just before information gets shared. Before the cold feet set in. Am I going to do that? Seek medical attention six months later, a year later, two years? And the doctor asking when did it start? Why the wait? Early detection might have helped a whole lot. Or would I embrace it. Become Deaths Apprentice. Marvel at my dissolution.

Dissolution; “The process of making something slowly end or disappear.”

Outside the swimming pool has turned green. Haunted by the twin ghosts of merriment and laughter. The food we tried to grow rendered inedible; now besieged by a plague of aphids. Not even the small pretty green ones; these are grey and ugly. Ordered especially. Sent by Satan himself. The cat litter box is overflowing, flooded with cat urine. Walking the dog has changed from being the highlight of my day to a big fat inconvenience. Even the sky just looks plain. Those in the know might suggest sex. That became a dead end a very long time ago. The hormones that inspire it are all dried up and frozen in a time when some kind of other stupid was going on.

Oh; The Irony.

Passion has abandoned me at a point I most need it apparently. The limp jokes of joy and pride tucked between my legs serve only as a reminder of what could have been. A life spent in perpetual orgasm. Infinite Ecstasy. Now I’m virtually impotent. The adverts on the T.V. call it Male Erectile Dysfunction and go on to explain a large percentage of men my age suffer from it. Poor me. Another gift from the gods of aging. Apparently all I need to do is pay a visit to the local Mens Clinic International. Prop up my penis with even more pills. Diet pills. A diet of pills. And so to compensate I fnck the love of my life with all I have left; just words.

I dare her to cry when I’m dead if she hates me so much that she feels like it’s worth fighting with me like this. I tell her to go on holiday with what’s left of her family without me if she still thinks we should spend some time apart. If she thinks we need to spend less time together, like maybe that would help us get through this. I sit to one side during all of this. Watching helplessly as the vitriol spills out of my mouth in slow motion. As though it had a life of its own. As if I were a man possessed. Some kind of stranger. Is this guy me? Is this the guy who I always wanted to be. When I was a kid and felt so excited about the potential of life and the excitement of destiny; is this what I thought I had to look forward to?

Is this the much sought-after fairy-tale happy-ending?

I can’t be bothered to get a haircut. On my face the hair grows like the patch of grass outside while the blade I shave with stands in line to claim insurance for unemployment with his best friend the lawnmower (best friend? Some say they are lovers now. Who would have thought? The shaving blade & the lawnmower…). Stuff I put on my desk to sort out at some point piles up like trash in the house of a hoarder. Stuff I put in the garden to do something with starts to rot after days of continuous rain. Tools in the garage rust and the place is a mess of unfinished projects. Empty containers are everywhere. Empty bottles of pain killers. Empty jars of… Coffee.

It’s been a week since I quit the stuff. Again.

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