Repeat

So, here we are again, one click lower down on the scale than before in a way. I’m broke again, and one of my solutions may be gone soon; Social Security is on the chopping block at the Capitol. Bleh. I am not sure what they imagine people will do without subsidies. We will not go into a disintegration chamber at the end of the street, without no human intervention and not a trace of the corporeal remaining. That would seem far too easy, but if we can automate everything else, I suppose automated death has already been conceptualized.

People have become so desensitized these days. We’re jaded and cynical because we’ve been lied to and betrayed so many times. Speaking for myself, I don’t know what or who to believe, and find it likely that no absolute truth will ever spring forth from the mouth of human kind. There are Universal truths, I suppose, but those are nothing any of us came up with. This current situation here on Earth is entirely of our own doing, and somewhere along the line we’re gonna have some ‘splainin’ to do.

So how am I going to survive as my health begins to decline, as I age and can do less and less without assistance? When the current federal administration was sworn in, my first thought was to leave the country. After brief consideration, I found that to be an untenable possibility. I’m not in any kind of shape to be engage in a major move to a foreign country where I’d have to establish citizenship, possibly learn a new language, find a medical care team, and so on. Maybe 30 years ago that would be the option hands down, but not at this point.

So where do broke old people go when there’s no social safety net? I don’t believe that place has been invented just yet, which is a terrifying realization. But I still believe in miracles, and I have to believe that something will come about that will make it possible to continue until it’s time to transition to some other experience.

Having those realizations causes me to wonder what I’m doing any of this for, this effort to heal, to recover, to learn. My default response answers quickly that no reason exists to make all of this struggle and effort mean anything. My embryonic alternative persona argues that we don’t know that for sure, that it is not necessary to understand the hows and whys of being here. I suppose the latest depression treatment has made some kind of difference, because I am more than willing to argue that point. Previously, I would have decided there was no hope for anything beneficial to come from this stage of my existence.

Many years ago, a lot of people who were prone to search out esoteric teachings said that we came here for a reason at this time, that we came into existence deliberately at this specific time. Some of them said people who incarnated to be present now are very brave souls, but I am cynical about that. I have to consider the larger group of souls here at this time, and not just the heroic or visionary ones. I have to remember there are some very dark souls here at this point, and they are here for a reason as well.

I haven’t always wanted to be wherever it is that I found myself. That’s been a more or less constant thing. When I was younger, I wanted to be older. Now that I’m older, I want to be much younger. That’s not unique, but of course it’s a big deal when it’s happening to me. Perhaps selfishness and self-centeredness are the only constants, but then again, I’ve had long periods of not putting myself first and not being self absorbed quite enough.

Looking back on things, I see no shape or form of me that has definition. I have more in common with Silly Putty, which adapts and takes on the characteristics of whatever inane thing it is pressed on. Truthfully, I feel as though I have a bit more definition now than I’ve ever had, but I’m still beginning my journey from a formidable distance behind the starting gate. Maybe that is the way it is supposed to be.

Maybe everything going on at this moment is exactly as it is supposed to be, but does that not assume that predetermination is afoot? I’m not sure about that at all, and have thought more that we are al building this plane while flying it. Pay no attention to the little man behind the curtain, but that works for fictional lands and not terra firma. The little man behind the curtain is not all that little, and he’s got bombs and guns and weapons of mass destruction. There is no good witch to offer salvation from the minions of the underworld, and we don’t get out of here alive. I just am hard pressed to find a point in any of it.

Maybe I’m not supposed to find a point. Maybe I’m not supposed to be completely happy with any of this. Maybe by the time I’m no longer able to live autonomously, there will be an app for removing myself from the narrative. That sounds way more honorable than checking out, offing myself, or giving up. I’m not going to do any of those things because I have no guarantee that any such actions would stop the pain, the confusion, the indecision. So, I’ll remain here until the next episode, or until the mothership arrives and takes me to some other place.

I feel as though I’ve been in this angst-ridden place of being not quite here or there, not quite alive but definitely not dead. I never really wanted to be a head atop a body that only existed to move it around, but I suppose that’s what I am now. That’s not actually a complaint, just a realization. For all the struggling and tumult of my younger years, I accomplished little of what I set out to do. Come to think of it, I may have never known what it was that I set out to do, other than have my family approve of me. I did what my mother saw as success, and stopped there. I guess I didn’t really conceive of any other place for myself except the place she saw me in.

I hate having these kinds of conversations with myself. My mother and father did very good things for me, especially getting me here. When I remember what was missing, however, I feel ungrateful, and spoiled. I have been told more times than I care to remember that I should forgive, because they were doing the best they could do. That may be true, or maybe not. I don’t know what was the best they could do.

Did I do the best that I could do? Most assuredly not. It’s not that I want a do-over, because all the money in the world could not seduce me into reliving those years when I didn’t know who the hell I was, but knew that I didn’t really want to find out. I had already decided that I was already damned, so the rest was all gravy. That happened very early on, in my recollection of things. At 8, I was already desperate to survive on my own terms and made choices that were a bit sketchy even then, but I stopped just short of turning into a fugitive or a runaway. I’m sure my finest hours back then were no longer cute, no longer precocious, but what did I know? I had only need and more need, and did not understand why I had to teach myself what I needed to know in order to actually survive.

I suppose I am still teaching myself what I need to know in order to survive, but now I have a driver’s license and a debit card so it’s a little different. But I still feel somewhat trapped in a reality that I did and did not choose, that I hate but am grateful for. What the hell is that all about? More will be revealed, I am told, but let’s bring it on – time grows short!