Because I am so serious

05 May 2013

The thought that being alive is difficult made my heart ache. The truth that politics, not simple hard and honest work would get you through easier, was weighing down on me. 

Some things are difficult to accept but we have to move on. Some do at a faster rate than others; I am not among them. The pressures of saving money, keeping a job and taking care of oneself contradict each other. 

Just the other day I was taking my usual morning bath. I felt a squeezing pain at my heart and immediately blamed my vaso vasorum for the disruption. It ached badly. Please blood vessels, don’t bitch, supply oxygen rich blood to my heart; don’t commit suicide. 

The idea that I had a heart attack wasn’t implausible. I stretched both my arms upfront before me and spoke out loud, just as was instructed during physio reporting class to determine if one should be rushed to the hospital. I remembered it was from stroke and not heart attack but I did it still.

Wasn’t it easy to be alive? You were afforded life every morning before the day you get to read this and who knows how many days after? It was granted to you like some gift you never wished for. You know it’s good but that doesn’t mean it would be useful. It might be just the sort of gift you want to keep and stare at from the glass door shelf with oak wood paneling. (Not really knowledgeable on what oak wood is. It just sounded appropriate as a mind’s eye illustration.)