To Believe I Had The Heart For You

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Death.

Do you ever think about death sometimes. I mean, not the death of some unfortunate soul that you know. I’m talking about YOU. Do you ever fantasize about being put six feet under, with all of your family staring down at you, shaking their heads. Do you ever wonder who the fuck will show up to your funeral. Maybe your ass will not even be put in a casket. Just dropped ass naked in the dirt. Will people see you in the morgue and see how small a dick you really have?

Yeah, I think like that. But I think I do because I have a mental problem. What’s your excuse? Another reason is that I’m old and getting close to that thin black line. That’s a whip! I’m going to be as old as my father in 20 years. Twenty years. Count ‘em and I still haven’t done anything worthwhile in awhile. Soon, my AARP subscription will come in the mail. That’s even if those buzzkills know where to find me. I’ve dropped off the radar years ago.



Now, I’m just navel lint in a baboon’s belly. I can’t even control where I go in the mornings. I just find myself, standing on line in the grocery store or the pharmacy. And another thing. I’ve lost the ability to write, to spell. I can’t even spell two Syllabled words. Something that at one time came to me without effort. Now, I get stuck on slightly longer words. My thinking is muddled some. It's like looking at things through a cloud bank. It’s hard for me to hold onto a constant thought. That’s why my blog sounds so nutty. I can’t stay on one topic.



That’s probably why I can keep on writing and writing. Because my brain is fiercely active. It’s always churning up something, then submerg- ing it again just before I can get it all out. What do you call that? Is there some kind of technical name for that shit? Foggyheaditis? It’s because of this fog in my head, which doesn’t allow whole thoughts to form, I’m finding spacial distances difficult. I crash into things. Doorways, doors, desks, tables, people. It’s like I careen off one thing only to crash into something else.



It’s a smooth, transitional vertigo that sweeps up through the fog and plants me against a door frame. To others I look drunk, but I’m far from that. I’ve just about quit drinking. My bouts with alcohol are few and far between. Unless this is just another product of a diseased mind. So you now wonder why is it that I think of death? Well, my brain is running at a million miles a second with nothing to slow it down. I used to use alcohol to keep steady, but then I started to abuse it, trying to stay in the real world. Through this raceway of thinking, I have a fog in my head, making it difficult to receive my thoughts even though they speed by.



I’m crashing into things, and on top of it all it looks like I’m going to get more meds. Such a short lifespan to live like this. I feel like I have to get out of the room today. I feel like joining the ranks of the millions. I feel like bugging out. But the fact that it’s outside makes me leery. I could just stay home and take a raincheck on the day.



That’s what I usually do, except for today. I took the short hike up to the grocery store and I can’t believe it, I almost died walking. I was so out of breath that I thought that my lungs would burst. Now I’m getting the cold, hard feeling that something is seriously wrong. The incredibly  fast weight gain. The light headedness, the heart burn. Something is adding up to something unsavory boys and girls. And you’d think I’d be concerned, wouldn’t you? But no.



I’ve been buried a number of times before.

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