On Counting

Too often I seem to spend my days counting. Counting the hours in the day until the work day is done. Counting the hours in the evening until the day is done. There is little joy in such hours: I am just passing through them. Some hours are boring: others are painful. At night I often think: ok, that day is over. Thank god.

Before I get up in the morning, I find my brain anticipating the hours ahead and trying to deal with them. Some mornings I can convince my brain to think about something else until I get up; some mornings that enough to let me get back to sleep.

For a long time I did not want to be here anymore. I had converted it from not wanting  “to be” to “not want to be here”.  Other people want me to be and want me to be here, and so not wanting to make things worse, I remain. A remainder of a divided life. I try my best to be responsible for those who want that dividend.

Lately people have taken to treating my heart. They are worried about the literal one, but the metaphorical one is troublesome too. Hearts are too often troublesome.

People make recommendations to improve, as if I don’t know. As if I have not tried. I know enough. Enough to keep counting. Counting the days, the hours, the beats. Counting things that don’t count. Counting on things that matter will go on after me.

Counting down. Counting off. Counting.



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