Dressed in the corporate logo, seated within the aluminum tube, I muse. Earlier I was fuming, stewing, but now I merely muse, hoping to tease the Muse to caress my fingertips.
Let us begin with the sordid topic of medication. I take mine. On a regular basis, I assure you. Both that prescribed by a learned man and that prescribed by destructive idiots, though that is tapering off.
One seems to maintain just enough to get by, the other seems to take everything from the outside world away for a few hours. The first is invisible, mostly in effects and completely to those around me. The second became far too visible, finally encroaching upon the public eye like a sad simian stuck sack-like upon my sloping shoulders.
Let me back up a few paces and approach this from another angle. Two years ago, I determined my depression and dislike of life stemmed from one of three possible causes, namely; a chemical imbalance in the brain, my having gone the wrong direction in life, or just a need to kick myself in the ass and get on with life.
Having tried number three to little effect, I was left to contemplate numbers one and two. Number two had very far reaching effects, in that to change direction would require a drastic change in employment, social interactions and just about everything else save personal hygiene. This left number three. Unpleasant, as I had always been dubious of such treatments.
I investigated modern medicine, interviewed others known to be in such a position. I took the leap. Two years later, here I am. Still in pain. Limbo, a gaping chasm at my feet, beckons on a regular basis.
Many changes have occurred, but then I cannot think of a time in my life where things have not been in flux. No wonder I so readily believed myself to be a spawn of chaos. A much less turbid relationship, more money, more playtime, slightly different daily pursuits.
Stress comes and goes, but discontent still hounds me; gnawing, not upon my heel, but upon my innards like some toothless hag who has to chew her gruel for five times longer than the average person. A slow, dull pain that seems to stretch itself out over hours and days, never achieving any form of progress or digestion.
So, here I am, stewing in my discontent. Financially okay, fantastically taken care of at home, well praised at work, having accomplished more in the mundane world than I had ever cared or dreamed to.
I rarely work hard. Perennially lazy, I seek the most efficient route to accomplish what is required of me. Being slightly above average, I experience above average results. Not the best, for I do not devote the effort into being such.
This said, I still chafe at the requirements of daily upkeep and the time spent on surviving in our “advanced” culture. Medication has not changed my perspective on these chains I envision on my limbs.
All too often I contemplate ways of ending my perceived enslavement to the system. If not by the whim of a lottery ticket, then by the more grim method of death. Death by suicide, death by neglect of the body, death by any method available. Cash in the 401K, have six glorious months of vacation and then die quietly in some place, in some way not too painful.
The mere thought of this brings pain to others, so I generally internalize my discomfort. I try to avoid serious contemplation for the pain it would bring others. But I am a selfish person and so such thoughts do not really leave my head. They bounce around my skull seeking clever back doors where they might execute undetected.
Unfortunately, not even a healthy relationship and the modern miracle of medication have been able to mitigate my malcontent. So where does this leave me? Back to option number two?
[© 2005 Joseph Wheeler, all rights reserved]