Softly, as I float

Feeling like we’re missing out
That time is just advancing
Each day blurring into the next
Eyes so tired they shake
Screaming no!
No this is not my life
Trying to escape
From what we can’t quite say
Just that relentless ticking away
Almost time for the new year
Almost whats next
Almost
The lie of each generation
That tomorrow is any different than
Today
Yesterday
Last week
Waiting for that paycheck
To pay one more bill
Buy one more thing
Maybe this time
It’ll bring something
Anything
Nothing
Just another spin
A chance to go broke
One foot in the street
Telling yourself
Tomorrow will be better
Tomorrows just fine
The long silence knows better
We’re not fine
But we’ll pretend
Until the smoke inhalation
Overwhelms us
In this trashfire
They’ve told us
Was the life we dreamed of
Keep striving
Against your own interests
Because tomorrow you might be the anointed
The rich
The powerful
False promises and another person
Another life
Seen through a window
Darkly

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

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.