Endgame...

The spate of suicides we’re hearing about has added an edge to the current environment and I suppose the outpouring of emotion is also colored by our own exigencies.

Each of us is trying to rally on and believe that there is a swift end to the unreal world we exist in the now.

That there is a reason for this; from God’s wrath, Karma’s troth, Nature’s retribution and Conspiracy attribution.

Rationalizations we indulge in make sense to each of us uniquely based on our filters and perceptions.

Much as we’d like to extol our fatalistic and accepting virtues, mere mortals that we are rally against the eventuality of dying.

Among the most celebrated poems on death the one that stays with me is Dylan Thomas’s:

“Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Says much about our humble acquiescence!

We’re posting on social media about reaching out and being there for each other while trying to make sense of the suicides. I even received a call this morning from an ex colleague after a decade!

Kudos to the lovely gestures, here’s my two bit. I cannot swallow all the time, need to spit too. Well actually gargle. One of my loony friends believes that the expression of true love is not swallowing but gargling. So there you go.

While we’re passing judgments on SSR and lending a ear to those who may need it, let’s ask ourselves if we find it easy to reach out?

The dark night and the burden of its dead weight is the yoke my shoulders are insidiously granulating under

Desolate seems the landscape of morrow

Dying by the minute is the beacon of the lighthouse

Rally on you say and…why?

Walked a meter in my shoes have you?

Ever been the melted marshmallow in my s’more?

Judge if you must if it's cowardice or bravado…

I decide when my race is run

And with a slit of my wrist, the deed is done

Hello people… the above is NOT a avowal of intent NOR plea for sympathy, empathy, pathi and all that bull crap.

It’s an honest recant of how I feel sometimes and I’m not very sure of how many people have in certain times in their lives felt the same. 

Maybe my conviction was not very strong and that’s what stopped me or maybe I grew tired of my own drama and said to myself, ‘shake it off you little f*ck’ and perchance it’s my keeda that said, ‘oh but you have so much more havoc to wreak’. 

Playing out my funeral in my head has helped as well (I have cried such bitter tears for me in that coffin than anyone ever will for sure!) as I have imagined my parents and children’s countenances and ditched the grand plans.

Ah back to suicide, depression is an illness and let’s not discount that. Is it easy for someone to reach out to a friend or an acquaintance, may not be so. 

Have you been a friend who has been nonjudgmental, accepting and evoked a deep sense of faith and trust? 

Could I randomly call you with all that assails me? 

Will you call me when you’re in the dumps? Do you think I will hear and help? 

Will you feel foolish like I do? 

Are you afraid that you will be laughed at or worse a topic for gossip?

Does the admonishment or lecture you are likely to get stop you?

When your friend begins to isolate, rather than allowing your ego to chafe, maybe watch for other signals of depression and get them to accept medical help. 

Similar with us as individuals, when you recognize that you don’t have your game together, reach out to gossamer strings that bind your soul and towards professional help. 

It’s an illness like all other and if we can have no qualms about talking about a visit to the physician, why balk at an appointment with a psychologist/ psychiatrist.  

Finally, let’s stop passing judgement on the decisions people make, to live or die. To each his own.

Mine...

Yesterday, for the first time ever, I presented a book review.

The book I chose was Ayn Rand’s ‘The Fountainhead’ a book I read again for the fifth time and each time I find new meaning and takeaways.

I winged it like I normally do. Sigh! The universe however seemed to conspire in my favor  as I received decent feedback on the presentation.

Truth be told I’m a lazy f*ck. If I can get away with my apparent charm (sic!) or the apparent illusion of someone who’s got their game, I will.

I did spend some time on the speech draft and while I was writing it, a few hours before the presentation I was nervous (a rare occurrence) and worried that I wouldn’t do the book the justice it deserves.

Time to present and I do so with absolute joy, the abundance of which all else seems pallid and it did! For the 7 odd minutes I was in a state of pure euphoria and ecstasy.

Post the review, I got to hear that it was decent and was thanked. Which confounded me really, I didn’t do anything that stemmed from altruism, I did it for myself, for the absolute pleasure it gave me.

Books are my lifeblood, the gossamer strings that bind my soul and the juice that fuels my engine.

Ironic the choice of the book really. The Fountainhead is all about the individual over collectivism.

Posting below an excerpt from Howard Roark’s speech below:

“It had to be said: The world is perishing from an orgy of self-sacrificing. I came here to be heard in the name of every man of independence still left in the world. I wanted to state my terms. I do not care to work or live on any others. My terms are: A man's RIGHT to exist for his own sake.”

The book review was what I did, for my own sake. Which got me thinking, in much of this drama called life we do things that resonate with us intrinsically. 

Yet we cloak it in a mantle of self-sacrifice and make it seem like we’re doing it for others.

Time to call out one’s bullshit, mine primarily.

I exist, for myself. Much of what I do is because it makes me happy. And I’m finally not ashamed to say it.

My choices on how my life should be and who needs to be in it stems from my need to feel fulfilled.

Within my core.

Fumble, stumble and crumble I will. But will find the faith that Christ’s doubting disciple lacked at first and discovered later.

Mine! and I claim it. Without apology.

Them Blemishes...

Growing old doesn’t plague me as much as growing up (not happening!) does. However, one must respect the law of gravity and what it does to one’s bodies.

I try not to look in the mirror often but when I do, the blemishes I’m developing on my face bother me.

Decided to check with my gynecologist who I was visiting for my hot flushes/ flashes and let me explain, not of the amorous kind, although these want me to tear off my clothes too!

Web MD: “Hot flashes are one of the most common signs of perimenopause, the years leading up to menopause. Intense heat starts in your chest and rises to your neck and head. Beads of sweat grow until perspiration run down your face. It’s a hot flash due to menopause, and it’s a loooong five minutes until it passes. Multiply that by 20 or 30 and you can call it a day.”

So my doctor grimly announces that it’s my genetics and perimenopause that affects the unbecoming blotches on the face and prescribes an anti-blemish cream. Hey Ho!

While I was applying it on my face after a shower a few minutes ago, the question popped, you’re working on eliminating the blots on the façade, what about those on your soul? 

Heaven knows there’s enough there to qualify for a many splendored speckled mosaic. Pun intended.

No seriously, why is the assiduity to the exterior exigent, while to the interior inconsequential. How am I working on refurbishing the innate quirks that desperately need redress. 

One of my multiple personalities is giggling like a meth addict while another has merely raised a lazy eyebrow languorously supine on a hammock, the other pushes the faith of my parents for answers and then there’s one who gently counsels.

The sully doesn’t define me, there’s room for improvement for sure and it may not be via enslavement, apathy or religion but needs to stem from the soul.

How I'm going to action the thought may well be the strength of my character (not from the theater of the absurd I hope) and the verisimilitude of my mettle. 

Blame-ish on me!