Like Sharon was stuck in her bed, I have mentally made myself a recluse in my downstairs room. Sure, I can leave any time. I come up for food and to feed the dogs, go for my walk, etc. But on rainy days, or pretty much any day, I will spend most of my hours down here alone. I am mostly bored.
Sometimes I get lucky and something will trigger an emotional response from me (no surprise, it's usually sadness).
I read Facebook occasionally because, well, my life is so empty that I have to get my glimpse out at the world somehow. Usually, I will be forced to scroll through the muck of people's best and brightest copied, shared or otherwise unoriginal material. Memes, videos, outraged reactions to news stories, always impugning some group deemed to be "the problem." Mild irritation is usually all I get out of most of it. The judgey little voice that says, "Oh, please..."
Always, I get to a point where something will stir up a memory, a thought, a feeling about the sad story that I live in. The one that revolves around Sharon's illness, our rough time together and her death. And my subsequent empty life of aloneness. I can twist any little thing into a reason to cry. Even cute kitties or babies. A flower. A breeze. A sunny day. Nothing exists that I couldn't find a sentimental mournful side to.
Pure joy doesn't exist in my universe, it's all tainted with the curse of death. My non-dual philosophies have failed me. I don't find comfort in any consciousness, oneness or enlightenment teachings. It's all mind-fuckery. Say the right words, and you will sound like you have a grasp on the "is-ness" of reality.
But honestly, no one knows shit. We are all grasping at straws. Some of us seem to be more convinced that they have something. Others, like me, are the opposite. I am sure of nothing except that I will die. Given the track record of every other human being that has ever lived, it's a safe assumption. What that means for me, or who I perceive myself to be, is a mystery. Hell, I don't even know what or who "I" am.
So, I'm just passing the days watching TV. Just like Sharon did. And soon enough, I'll find out what's the big secret of what's behind door number 3. And this life of tedium that I've been wallowing in will be over. Who knows if I'll ever see Sharon, or Hannelore or Uncle Steve, Grandma and Grandpa, Gracie and Bill or anyone who I've ever known that died ever again.
Can't wait to find out.
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.