Thursday, February 2, 2017

A Sad Poetry kinda time.

Hunny is working nights. He leaves about 20 minutes after I get home from work and comes home around 4 in the morning, which is an hour before I wake up.  It sucks. I am happy he is working and he is making good money, and this is not the first nor the last time this has happened. I set goals for myself to "do" something every night and not fall into the massive depression pit, which has happened several times in the past to me. I try to make dinner every night and leave him a plate in the morning, this makes us both feel closer. Also I try to keep myself from going to bed before 9pm, seeing as I am guilty of hiding in my bed and sleeping myself into a sad state. It all sucks and its hard. I wrote a nice blog piece for this week that had a really great happy vibe, but it feels like too much of an emotional lie to really post. I feel grouchy and crappy and melancholy. Melancholy is a good word for it, because there really isn't an obvious cause for my sadness, Hunny loves me and misses me, and I love him and I miss him. I wouldn't want him to change his schedule if this is what he needs to work right now, nor would I want him to be in a different profession that wouldn't make him work this schedule at times. I am just sad because I really enjoy hanging out with him, I enjoy his company a lot, even if its just reading a book in the same room he plays a video game in. I feel like I have nothing to look forward to in a day, its just weekday after weekday working at a job that doesn't challenge me in the slightest, then coming home and just trying to force myself to "do" something any try and not sleep myself into a bottomless depression, waiting for the weekend and trying to ignore that next week is just going to be the freaking same. Hopefully we will have kids someday soon and they will be a something I can focus on during these times. One week will be over soon.

Charles Bukowski - Gamblers All

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, 
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside 
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and 
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face 
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway, 
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the 
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your 
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself, 
like millions of others you enter the arena once more. 

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now, 
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch 
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow 
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull 
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful 
and so disappointing because 
we are all so alike and so different. 

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous 
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works 
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and 
out through your shoes. 

it's been a tough fight worth fighting 
as we all drive along 
betting on another day.


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