#FWF Free Write Friday; Time and Place Scenario
Here is your FWF prompt…
Let’s leap into the future with a time & place…
Here is your FWF prompt…
Let’s leap into the future with a time & place scenario.
The year: 2063
The place: An underground bunker
What’s going on?
This is a hard one for me. I deal with so much in 2013 I don’t think about 2063. It is scary to say out loud that I won’t be alive. I will have lived a good life and in that year I will be sitting by God looking down at who knows what.
I guess it doesn’t matter, since I won’t be here to live it.
Although I do wish my grandchildren the best of luck. They are young enough now that they most likely will adapt very well.
They will look back at people like me and wonder why we got so excited over a microwave. Or how about when they make fun of me because I own the latest version of a cell phone? Well what ever the case, at least I am still not using two paper cups and a piece of kite string for a phone.
I can taste and season my own foods. I know my way around and don’t have to worry about falling into any moon puddles or craters. I know how to use my simple cell phone and I can program my own ring tones and pick my own wallpaper. My car is still made in the United States of America, and I can still choose which gas station and what kind of gas I choose to use.
As far as wars go, I have lived all these years with war going on and off. I am sure God has the perfect answer in how to end this useless fighting. So for this I will just sit by God and watch him work his miracles.
And last but not least, I sort of like the skin I wear right now. I don’t think I want to see me looking like my next door neighbor’s dog. So I will take what I have and be content, for I am pretty sure that some things will be exciting in the future, but I am certain that I would be lost and realize that there is no place like home. http://youtu.be/4IErqIMLwtQ
How can a person who has what they need in life be so emotional? I woke up this morning
early to the bell jingling from Al, letting me know he is awake. I have never done this before, but I told him it is so early, couldn’t he just go back to sleep for a tad longer? He said nothing but the room got quiet and he did not get up for another forty-five minutes, so I lay back down in my bed and snuggled up under the warm blankets.
I lay there, but immediately my mind started doing the same crap it does so many times when my body is not physically busy. It spins, it won’t settle, it starts going back in time and moving quickly, like watching a tornado come your way, to the front and center.
I hate it, I hate it so bad. I never go back in time too early. I never revisit my childhood. It always goes back to the time when dad was ill. I relive the wonderful times that I was privileged to take care of him while he was sick. My mind goes over the mean woman, that went from nice to meaner than the wicked witch of the west from the Wizard Of Oz, when she found out he had bone cancer. I relive every word, every action she did and I watched my father fall between the cracks with her, while I tried so hard to remind him that he could leave her clutches and go back home, that I would care for him.
I then move up to five years ago when I started caring for my brother. The guilt that I carry because in the beginning, it was not the special love I had for my dad that would keep no one from doing what I was doing for dad, but now I was caring for my brother, because he needed me.
There was never a great bond between my brother and me growing up, and I can not feel guilt over this, as we were taught not to bond, to just sit and behave. Now four years later, I will do anything to keep my brother happy and safe, even tell dentists off!
How can I sit here only being up two hours and want to cry my eyes out? How can I feel this way when I have my bills paid, and Al is confused but in good spirits, and there is food on the table, and I have so many good friend. How can I be so darn selfish?
It is a pity party, isn’t it? Sometimes I believe it is, and other times, I am not so sure. It seems to be something that just pops up out of nowhere. Maybe it is the holidays coming, maybe it is the stress of wondering how I am going to buy groceries for the Thanksgiving meal, or get the items needed for our new make and bake Christmas.
I worry too darn much, but can’t seem to quit doing it, and I get so disgusted with myself, I want to just go hide under my blankets and go back to sleep. I have no right nor reason to feel this way, but here I am, ready to sob but can not force the tears to come.
I am doing a load of laundry, and I have gotten Al through his breakfast and medications. I even have my favorite television running in the background, The Golden Girls, and I have changed Al’s wet bed and have emptied and cleaned the commode, but inside, I want to sleep.
I have so much to be thankful for, so where is my smile. I so wish I would knock this crap off. I am mourning, I am mourning for the loss of my parents, the loss of a once close sister, the loss of all that was once so common and familiar.
I can not change it, I can not bring back what once was, and I know as I sit here, life will never be the same. I just want to stop, pick up my heart, lift the corners of my lips into a smile, and get excited about the day, but so far it is not happening.
So if I know what I have, why am I allowing this to happen. Hopefully, it will change before noon arrives.
This is a blow steam off short blog. No story, just release.
For the last several month and even now my brother picks. For some reason the past couple of days his picking has increased from medium to high-speed. Every single time I look at him, his hands are picking each others fingers, or nails, or he has his hands rubbing his forehead, and rubbing it until he makes his skin red. I have also seen him rubbing his arms, just searching for a tiny bump or something to pick.
It is driving me nuts! I have made numerous suggestions to him to get his mind occupied with doing something other than pick. I have offered to walk beside him while he rides his scooter, just offered to have him go ride his scooter alone. I have bought him so many replicas of old-time cars. He has enough that he can look at them, study them, but he won’t take them out of their boxes. He just lines them on his shelf, and there they sit. He has so many pieces of Coca-Cola, I can not even count them, but they sit. His collection of price guide books mainly sit on his bed beside him, once in a while I see him pick one up.
I have also noticed that he isn’t really digesting any of his Bible anymore. Instead, he flips through the pages.
I hesitate anymore to take him to the shopping stores, as he cries constantly, because he has lost the idea on how to make those scooters work, or which way to turn the wheel if he wants to turn down an aisle, so even though we are there, my mind is wishing I was back at home.
I know the reasons, but can’t fix them. The Parkinson’s has ripped his meaning of life apart. He has no desires for anything in this world any longer. He loves to talk about things he used to do, but I can not allow him to do these anymore, because most of them require out-of-town driving. I have given in and bent over backwards for him, but I hate driving. I always have. Out of town driving is worse for me, as it can cause my old-time panic attacks to return. There are some things I just won’t give in to, in order to protect my own health.
I can not change his views on life, because he doesn’t want them changed. He likes sitting in his recliner, in his room, with little or no lights on and just the TV light on for him. He is getting to the place where he wants to be alone most of the time, and my mind is telling me this is not good for him, that it can cause him more emotional pains and drama.
Today, I am ready to give in. I am ready to take my mind and let it go. I am tired of trying to please him, tired of trying to be more creative than yesterday, tired of spending unneeded monies to bring those smiles.
The weird thing for me to understand is the talk. When people are here, he talks a mile a minute, about cars and places he used to go. I have tried taking him to revisit his past with the car shows, but once we get there, the tears start, as he is not able to thoroughly enjoy his time out, so we come back home. I end up frustrated, sometimes angry, and just want him to leave me alone, and let me take a nap.
This sounds like the old wicked witch from the movie, The Wizard Of Oz, speaking, but I needed to release, so I can continue the day by fixing his lunch. I know he is in his room now, counting down the minutes until he can come out to eat.
Although I always tell him he doesn’t need to stay in his room, he doesn’t want to be out here.
Is it me, his dad, his illness? I don’t know, and right now I just don’t care.
Darn, this sounds bad, but I am really a loving sister with an itch to bitch.