Might not be forever...

Being alive is finite. That which exists must be finite. That which does not exist is infinite potential. The potential is potential existence. That which may exist already exists in a different form. The infinite potential is the ability of the being always to be new. Nothingness exists in the form of nonexistence. Existence of nonexistence exists. Infinity of the finite is the secret of existence. The very finiteness of the eye of the universe leads to infinity. Only nothing is infinite in its endlessness. Its endlessness is its end. The nothingness of itself and for itself is absolute.

Hold his chest, let it breathe...

Sometimes, I'm overwhelmed by it all, the vastness of this life, the absolute miracle that I exist at this moment in time. How much magic is out in the universe, stretching beyond what the eye can see, reaching distances the mind can't even comprehend? Yet I am here. I am alive. 

When it comes to success, he can't ever get enough. His entire self-worth is based on it, and he tends to go from victory to victory to avoid feeling awful. In a way, it's pure homeostasis at work. The buzz from triumph is neutralized quickly, leaving him in a state of hangover and angst. Knowing he will be looking for the bump again very soon, his brain ultimately adjusts to a baseline feeling of anti-success. After a while, he needs it constantly just to not feel like a failure. He will run and run but make no real progress toward his goal - simply avoiding being thrown off the back from stopping or slowing down.

It's okay, I'm okay...

When it's all said and done...

I am not okay,

I'm barely getting by,

I'm losing track of days,

and losing sleep at night.

I am not okay,

I'm hanging on the rails,

so if I say I'm fine,

just know I learned to hide it well.

Listen to the ones that love you...

Don't prove I'm right...

He hopes he'll get to see you again one day, and that you'll say sorry, and he'll tell you you're forgiven. He hopes he'll find all the pieces of his mind that fell out of his head over all these years, and that he'll be able to put himself back together again. I hope the echoes of pain will fade, and the memories of sorrow will die, and that he'll have visitors when he's old and grey. And he hopes you'll have a happy ending of your own. For who could think of hell without hope?

I move too fast...

I'm starting to get really hurt by the injustice of how his life turned out. He did everything right as a son, a brother, a husband, and a father. And then being dealt this hand so late in life? Cruel and unnecessary. And the worst part is, I don't think there's basically anything I can do about it. Perhaps most of all, I should not make it about myself and learn to live with this hurt, stand up, and move on as he will undoubtedly have to. It's what I'll do now. It's what I’ll do tomorrow and the next day. For however long this fight goes on. Just stand up. And I rise slowly to my feet. Heavy and shackled with weight. I still move.