March One

StrawBerryI’m rushing. No particular reason why. I got everything done yesterday. Still, I nearly forgot to get this entry written. I confuse myself.

The lady I take care of isĀ  . . . She’s not doing so well. It’s all expected and there’s nothing that can be done. I struggle to think of a situation where I feel as humble or as helpless. I want to do something. Anything. But I can’t. So I do the most I can. I make her comfortable, I help help her eat, and, my favorite, I read my poems to her as I develop them. Sometimes when she’s awake I can see her cringe . . .

Other things are as suspected. All the chores are done. My bank account whimpers after all the bills paid. I do too, for that matter. My comfort is in knowing I’m not in debt. I’m proud of that. I don’t need to be a debt slave. I would hate that yoke. I feel indignant enough working hard and getting paid what I do at my current job. The mere thought of being trapped makes my skin crawl.

I have urges to do more art. Which would be nice, but I’m on a schedule here and I’m trying my damnedest to finish on time. In fact, I’m a wee bit behind. I fully intend to kill it this weekend. A hearty amount of blood, sweat, and tears will be allocated . . .

And just as I recommit myself to the effort, I remember I have some studying to do for a test. I’m taking the damned Accuplacer thing Monday. You’ll hear about it Tuesday. I will need to make some time for math and English studies. I dim just a little knowing I won’t have enough time for poetry . . . stupid time, constraining my efforts.

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