Hatred of the Timekeeper

What do you do when the “I don’t want to die” isn’t as strong a voice in your head as, “I don’t want to live”?

I wrote those words two days ago.  The sentiment, the confusion, the angst grows and beckons me as well as repulses me.  I wake in the morning with the timekeeper kicking me in the gut.  Get up, get on the road.

The joy is sucked out of every activity by the timekeeper.  What’s at the end of this long drawn out speed of lightning movement…death.  No matter which way you look at it, it’s the same.  You die.  Here I am no further along the evolutionary path of my life than I was when I was a child.  Stuck in patterns that are a labyrinth, with each turn sucking the soul…no, any sense of goodness out of me.  What’s left but a vessel of toxicity.  That is me..toxic.  My mantra I build is, “I don’t care.”  I don’t want to care about anything or anyone.  I want to learn to turn off completely.  The timekeeper robs me.  The stupidity of life robs me of brain cells, heart beats.  There’s safety in the emptiness of not caring.  No rug gets pulled out, no missed opportunities, no regrets.  There just is not any glory in strength.  It truly is a fable.  People see strength and they either try to suck it out of you or break you of it.  I am broken.  I am too old to fight the so-called good fight.  Funny, it was never a good fight.  Even that is bullshit, a tease.  The human race, we are a pathetic bunch, including me.  I thought there was hope for us.  I had hope that we were more good than evil.  I had hope that hard work and doing right paid off.  I had hope that love never lets you down.  I believed in heroes.  I believed in the dream of tomorrow.  Heroes only exist in movies.  Dreams and tomorrow…well, is either really worth having anymore..

I sit in wonderment of the purpose of my cruelty.  It worms through my thoughts and deeds and creeps into my throat and escapes…only to return unsatisfied.  It detaches me.  It protects me.

I need it survive.

Will I the other “I” revive, ever??  The frustration, the unending frustration builds and festers like a canker.  Everything good about me is slipping away.  When I used to live in my head, it was full of daydreams and wishes and aspirations.  Now I sit in the dark, unable to see anything in my head, but utter bleakness.  My imagination stolen by the timekeeper.  I’m taunted each day by people strolling along the streets in the sunshine.  Relaxing with moments to do absolutely nothing but enjoy the activity of walking in the sun.  How I envy them.  They’ve escaped the timekeeper, broken the shackles.  Or is that too just an illusion of freedom.  On closer examination don’t they all look beaten too, the walking dead.  They don’t look free.  No one is free.  Does death bring freedom or is that just another prison?

My head aches with it all.  I remember my mother would tell me, “I’m just tired.  I’m so tired.”  It confused me.  She did nothing to be this exhausted from.  I was a teenager at the time.  I thought she was crazy.  She was not crazy.  She may have hit bottom and stayed there by the sheer joy of not having to try anymore, but she was not crazy.  I now understand being that worn out, that beaten.  To sum everything I’ve learned to this point in once sentence to carry on as my legacy, I’d say, “life is a Louisville Slugger.”

I had a “Eureka” moment this morning.  The crows that I’ve been writing and dreaming about, they signify everything and everyone picking at a piece of me, of my life.  Leaving me nothing…


I had a couple of hours tonight to read and write.  That had been stolen from me.  How do I tell those around me that there is nothing left of me to give to them when I’m robbed of what makes my heart beat, makes my adrenaline flow. How do I say that without words there is no me to feel. So I stole back some time and read Henry Miller this evening, finishing off, though with super speed reading, the Rosy Crucifixion.  I shall miss him as my companion.  I felt in like company when I read his words.  He, however, had liberated himself in his writing and in his life.


I am still seething about those deciding my activities and fate.  They put me in a box, saying this is how it is done, this is how you should operate, this is the way it can work, no sweat, no problem.  They haven’t any idea of the impossibility of their plans for me.   I get so frustrated because in my eyes they don’t see it as overwhelming for me.  They can’t see that it can never work the way they say.  I would have to never need sleep, pleasure, down time, inspiration, anything at all to be able to function.  What is wrong with them!  How do they not see it as impossible!



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