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.