Irregular thinking

I am not regular thinking at all today. I mostly just regular think lately which is just like it sounds regular thinking and now it’s irregular thinking. Which is like it sounds. Irregular. Like an irregular heart beat. The rhythm is not right. It’s fast and slow and erratic. It’s not so much the topics; it’s the switch of the topics. It’s not even that it’s that I was consistently thinking and now I’m skipping beats and rhythms from topics too hard to think of topics. Not from one extreme to another but so far out there to nothing to everything. Almost nothing. And almost everything. Not too much. Just bouncing around. Not just over thinking but I’ve created scenarios so far out of reach I can’t bring them back? I’ve missed beats in my thoughts and am bouncing all around. They are too out there. More like they don’t matter they are so far out there. Grief is really making me irregular think.

I shouldn’t be here. I am not the person to sit and wait for people to die. I am not even usually the person to sit for anything or nothing. I am not the person for so much of this. I’m just a regular person with too many tentacles to try and hang on to people too hard and long for no reason and all the reasons at once.

I wish we could actually touch clouds. They look like they can be touched and enjoyed and felt. Today they look like I could reach out and grab one and pull it from the sky and gobble it up like cotton candy. White cotton candy. What flavor is this? Just white? Just sugar. Plain sugar. Is cotton candy just sugar? Yes it’s spun sugar. The blue taste like blue and the pink tastes like pink. They taste different? Can I request white cotton candy when I buy it? Just the sugar one without the numbered dye. That’s what I want. The one that looks like clouds you can eat and touch. So I can see what it’s like to touch and eat a cloud. Since I can’t. Because we just get to see them. They aren’t something we get to jump and bounce from and leap our way up to where we believe is a place people go. Up. To heaven. To the place above the clouds. It’s imaginary. All the clouds today look like the bart Simpson clouds. They look jumpable. Eatable and touchable but are actually unbelievable.

What do people do? I will them to die. I am sitting here willing someone to die in my head. That’s not regular thinking anymore. It is causing so much live living grief. Not grief of a loss but grief of a loss to come that should come so the grief of actual loss can begin and not the hang onto someone kind that is teetering on the edge of loss grief. See what I mean? Irregular thinking. Hoping someone dies so the living can live again. Can move on. We hang on to our almost dead. It’s too hard to let them go. It’s too hard to imagine them gone. It’s too hard to move on. It’s too hard to not get to touch the people we see when we close our eyes. The people we think of who are gone. Or even when we have them open. Like clouds. Like someone who is dead. They aren’t there anymore. Like clouds aren’t really there? But it’s too hard for who?

He will be ok. It’s been hard for him. It’s been too hard for him. It feels easy and peaceful to just let go of the hard. After all this time it’s time. We all have a time. It’s time. Nobody wants it to be time at all. But some times it is just time. Even when we don’t want it to be that time. It’s scary for us and him. It would be weird to not be scary. But being afraid is brave. It’s brave to die when it’s time but no one wants it to be time. After all this time it’s just time.

I’m just so still torn about so much. I don’t want to be contacted by ex girlfriends, lovers or whatever it was or if it still is. I have too much to really regular think about without adding to the irregular thinking I’m doing today so my guy can feel a little relief for once. I don’t know how to be there for anyone let alone someone who is so used to being let down, or not having someone there for him. Because I can’t sit and wait for people to die well. I don’t even know if being there for someone means being there or just saying I am but not actually. Like clouds. Is it a physical presence or just let me know and I can be? I can’t? I wasn’t and someone else was. That’s what I am used to. My own let downs my own no one is there for me.

What does it even mean for me? For me it is someone who would show up for me. Someone who is also getting the life knocked out of them in an arena at the same time and keeps getting up and somehow occasionally turns and looks over their beaten bloodied face and shoulder and says. You good? And spits a tooth out maybe. Wipes the bloody snot away and never gets actually beaten just hurt. But also never leaves the arena we are in where we are both getting constantly hurt and knocked down. When do we win in this I am there for you irregular thinking scenario. Is it never? Do we just never win? Is it actually always because we never left the fight? Is it just occasionally? Is it when someone dies? Who’s win was that?

I don’t want any more people to die. No one does. But I sort of do. Because what kind of life is it when you can’t live? Not don’t want to but can’t? Physically can’t. Why would we want them to stay? For us. So we have someone to care for? When we can’t care for ourselves? My mom was this? Is this? She has to have someone to care for or else it means she has to for once take care of herself. She doesn’t know how. Some people don’t. I joke that she just needs a good homeless person to fix. Yet I know that’s not a joke and it’s actually a suggestion she wouldn’t take lightly to pursue. She would take it seriously. She is also part octopus.

I am part her and this is why I have so many octopus tentacles. Actually I have just the 8 like octopus do or else I wouldn’t be an octopus, in my head anyway. I don’t have them all filled and squeezing someone but I know I am capable of it. Because I am my moms girl part of the way and the other part of the way I am my dad. I take care of me. Usually this part of me is me. But my mom surfaces when I get bored with just me. Or apparently when I Am grieving. Because grieving for me is just too hard and it is just easier to help other grieve so I can look for clues on how to do it myself. How do I grieve? By helping others with grief? Will I lose myself again? My dad being gone to remind me to look out for me again. To not lose myself while fixing others who can’t fix themselves. Or don’t want to fix themselves. Or it’s just too hard. Their arena was harder than mine. They couldn’t. Look away and spit a tooth out and look out for me because they had too many punches coming. Maybe no teeth left.

It feels like not regular thinking to be hoping someone can be allowed and granted the grace to go. We aren’t anyway. They aren’t laying there hanging on to every breath they take for you. It’s because the time isn’t there yet. They look so labored and dramatic. Like they are breathing just for you. Like it hurts. Like it’s the one for you and then one more for you. Then still one more for you. Then none for anyone. Even you. But it’s not. It’s still for them. It just takes a little time for the body to stop being alive apparently. They aren’t hanging on. We are. We want them to breath forever so we can hold their hands and see them and touch them and hear them forever. It’s just not forever. The last breath was relief for me. Not mine. Watching my dad take one last one was relief. I was holding my breath. I couldn’t breath. I wanted him to stop so I could again. He was suffering. I could see it and had seen of for months and most his life and all of mine. We were his life but we didn’t keep him going. He did. Then it was time to be done. It became finally easier for him for once. But harder for us. But easier for him so easier for me. For once.

I’ve imagine what life would be like if bug lives mattered. Like really mattered. Like they drove around in our cars and they would be their cars and we clung to the windshields as people while they drove around. Or that we were swatted and smacked and smashed. Or that we were zapped in zappers or given poison for eating lawn roots and trees leaves. All of this administered and acted out upon us by bugs. Would bugs have other lives matter? Like fly lives matter? Or fleas or gnats. There are a lot of kinds of bugs. Would they have issues with race? Are there racist bugs? Hypocritical? Do bugs hate? Why do we? Do bugs have instincts and gut feelings? Seriously. Not regular thinking today.

I should amputate my octopus legs. Or let go a little more of some of them. What would I be if I wasn’t always reaching out to others who I think need me? Me again is who? Who was that? Is that? It’s not me. We have to have octopus people. People who reach out to help even if it is jeopardizing yourself. It’s what sacrifice is? Giving up something for something else? Although this word has such very different uses. Anywhere from slaughtering animals to a religious act. Depends on the sentence it’s in what the sacrifice is. I wouldn’t sacrifice my octopus legs for no octopus legs because I just don’t really know who I am without helping others sometimes. I wanted to clean the floor, do dishes, wash the little covers over the lights on the ceiling, look for a ladder to do this, weed the neighbors garden, water the other neighbors flowers and maybe mow the entire park down the road in the mower I saw just sitting while the mower park guy didn’t mow and was not watching his mower well. But I was hungry and missed this guy who is about to lose someone who I keep willing to die in my irregular thoughts. Because it is just time. Not time but time.

I want to pull weeds and dead plants from a building that tax payer money pays for. Why can’t I? Isn’t it like an act of kindness. Even my cicvic duty as an active community member. Am i active in the community though? No. Im not a community person. Let alone an active one. I could be. If i was I would be addressing horticulture maintenance for sure. I could vote? Does this get effected by who and what we vote for? The plant selection wasn’t ideal. I could maybe ask? Parks aren’t working at full capacity yet? I could do it in the middle of the night but that seems like more of a crime than in daylight. In daylight I could explain myself better than all dressed in black skirtn around the shérif department ripping dead plants and weeds out. Maybe I wouldn’t wear black. Maybe high visibility and be seen so I don’t look like a criminal? No matter how I imagine it I am breaking a law. Even though I am just trying to do a simple civic duty of horticulture clean up for free even though somehow my taxes already payed for it to not be kept up. I am just being a responsible tax payer? I paid for this so it should look better? No, I should simply call the office and say I am disappointed in the lack of care of plants I sort of own. No, I should drive a different way until this quits bothering me or they rip it out and plant all new plants to die. Maybe start a volunteer group? Except there are likely union rules for this space…maybe close my eyes when o drive by? Nope. Need the eyes open. Maybe just stop and do it and see what happens, who would bother a lady out weeding weeds on county property without permission or a real good reason. I would certainly find out, I let it go. Loosen my grip on things I can’t control. Like dead and dying landscaping and dead and dying people.

I am not the right person for this but here I am not the right person for this with a person who needs a person to be just any person for once. Right or wrong. Just someone. I am not just someone but I am a person who can right or wrong be a person. I want to be that person. Except I am getting the crap beat out of me by life and I’m even beating myself up and I need someone to turn to and say you good as much as someone might need to say it to someone too. Or hear it. Just a regular person with some irregular thoughts today.