A Trickle Of Hours

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It’s absolutely bucketing-down outside.
Cats and dogs.

It’s only 11pm, but I’m hitting the hay early tonight.

I didn’t go to bed last night.
I stayed awake the whole night.
Then kept working all day.
It’s not an unusual occurrence.

I cleaned,
and organised and vacuumed and tidied.
I’m just a little proud of myself.

And it all means nothing.

I turn 44 in eight days.

Probably,
with my genetic lineage,
exactly half way through my life.

And I honestly feel, that given the reality of human existence, it can be argued that I have put in more effort than most. To live. To REALLY live.

Against the tide of my poisonous family, and a weak society that attacks my kind:
The gentle, loving, creative and generous.
The one without guile or malice.

So if my next chapter in life fails.
It will be by final chapter.

I will try one last time
to stay alive.

Then I am leaving.

Because living in this much pain,
with a truly shattered heart
and only dogs to love,
isn’t living.

It is just existing.

And,
if when it is done,
I am 45,
or 55,
or 85
– I would have done my best.

And I would have earn the solace of the longest sleep.

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