Injecting sand, hoping for one more minute

I play for time
Rolling dice against an uncaring clock
Anything to maintain distance from sleep which drags me unwilling out of bed as morning breaks
And fatigue settles into bones
Wander through routine
And listening to high energy music in a vain attempt to will myself into work

I play for time
Seconds drip by
Hopeful steps with one more second before tomorrow becomes inevitable
That foreknowledge
That foregone conclusion
It not even burnout
It’s just life
This wheel turning with no hope to get ahead
Head above water
Treading and hoping to make it to that future I once thought certain

Calm wistful mornings

Drop sand distant to a tune made melody
Pounding counterpoint to soft gasps
Quiet bitten lip moans
Being quiet for too thin walls
Open to the endeavors of pain
Break wave and skin taught
Beads of sweat
Cold in the rooms still air
Eyes meet
Even in passions throws
Small towel and soft cover
Cutting out cold
Taking fierce care while being taken
Into ear the growl of
“Mine”
And thus I’m lost again

Blood greases the wheel

There are companies which are the very definition of the drab Dutch businessmen portrayed in so many paintings. Bland, nearly tasteless. Faceless. The same type, again and again. Charismatic but not overly so. Smart but not intelligent. Academic rigor but not intellectual curiosity. Bland.

And those of us who find ourselves in trapped in such places…we slowly drown. Slowly fade until we have nothing left. And wake each day, filled with a low level dread. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the next twist of the knife you never quite see coming.

A corporate culture not quite toxic. But only just barely.

I don’t have answers. I only have questions.

The truest wish I could ever state is this: I wish I were independently wealthy. Not so I could live it up and party. But so I could take care of the people I love in the manner they should be taken care of while not having to grind away at a job.

Because, honestly, after working for the last 30 years with little beyond continued life and some material possessions as a result, I am just tired of it.
And there is no end to it, without some massive upheaval of circumstance. There is only the maintenance of this or a devolution resulting in worse circumstances.

Arguably, I have a good job. But really, it pays just enough to keep my head and the heads of my loved ones above water. Which I know is amazing, seen from outside. And isn’t that sad? To aspire to just getting by.

What have we become? When the hope of something better is fiction. When the now is an endless slog to an uncertain future.

I’m weary beyond bone. So tired that my body spontaneously creates wounds. Aches, pains. In deep response to a continued existence. What is the answer? I don’t know.