End of Another Week

Not an auspicious beginning to the weekend. Gray, gray, gray, wet, wet, wet cotton batting was rolled across the skies last night and settled heavily today. Based on the maps, it won't be gone until another work week starts. And once it comes out, I'll see no sun except possibly through a window. By next weekend there will be more rain and more clouds.

I've had a headache for two days. Finally took an Imitrex around the middle of the morning and it cleared up sometime this afternoon. Came home, stopping by the pharmacy to pick up some scripts that were waiting, and promptly went into a depressed state where I sat and cried and talked to no one and the house resonated with no response.

At 6:30 I remembered to take my medicines and after about an hour I was upright again. A hot shower made me long for a vat of hot water but it was better than nothing. I opened some canned beef stew that wasn't really any good. I made hot cocoa and toaster strudel and promptly burnt the roof of my mouth.

I'm going to bed I think. No use sitting up. It isn't going to be a very useful weekend anyway. I'd like to sleep but even that seems to be something I'm denied. I'll feel lucky to get 5 hours.

I've asked myself over and over what anything means. We spend lifetimes accumulating things - house, cars, possessions, families and photographs of it all. And at the end of the day, when it is all gone, it means absolutely nothing to anyone else.

I sat on the edge of my bed and looked around at this box I live in. A treasure chest filled with my life. A coffin of sorts, I guess. I noticed some pictures on the wall in front of me. I bought them when Michael was about Sarah's age or maybe a bit younger.He's 30 now and she's 3 1/2. We lived in Fayetteville, N. Carolina. I remembered how much I liked them and still do. The scenes look like old English villages painted on foil. I've taken such good care of them because I just loved them. They've traveled thousands of miles safely wrapped to prevent the glass breaking. At one time, they gave me pleasure to look at them. I doubt anyone else will ever care for them at all.

The place is filled with such stuff, things I thought were of value, meant something, would someday mean something to others. And I realized that they're pretty much meaningless. I tried to remember exactly why they meant so much to me. But I can't.

As I sat on the couch earlier and talked to no one, I could hear the clock on the wall. Everyone who comes here says it has the loudest ticking sound they've ever heard. It is just a five dollar wall clock you can get virtually anywhere. But it is loud. I hear it all the time. For some reason it ticks louder at night, as if it wants to remind you that while you sleep time doesn't. It is my virtual hourglass. Rather than watch the sand slip silently through the slot, I listen to the tick, tick, tick of time passing. Like things, it is pretty meaningless. I have very little sense of time at all, in fact. I forget things. So, I don't much tell time. What could I tell it? Unlike sand the in the hourglass, I can't turn it over and start again.