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too much time on my bones
Mar. 19th, 2005 10:20 amI had that impulse to keep driving this morning, down the highway of morning sunlight. That particular impulse creeps forward now and again. I spent the rest of the drive to work trying to string together all those moments on a common thread.
Twenty five years is a relatively short span of time. But in twenty five years the world changed. Twenty five years is enough to become a burden and sometimes I feel with weight of my life more keenly than other days. I want to leave it, run away and start over somewhere else. Once I said that to someone, in a fit of madness at the end of my adolescence. It was perhaps one of the kindest things he ever did, sending me home that night.
I think about leaving, about buying a house and living there alone in emptiness. About how the dark at night will frighten me, and I will pull the curtains closed. How I will live in constant silence.
The new job makes me not want to answer the phone. I snapped at my mother last night and I didn't mean to. I also missed Melynda's call.
I think about dying all the time. It never leaves me. Every time I drive my car I think about about fragile the line is between safety and catastrophe. My hands shake on the steering wheel and I think about the myriad ways I could crash the car. So many years and I'm still somewhat afraid of driving myself to work.
It is that sort of thing that makes me wonder if there isn't something more seriously wrong with myself than humdrum suburban depression and postmodern life. It's irritating. I would like to just get the hell over it already. I'm almost twenty five and I really don't want the same miseries that I had at seventeen. It just makes me feel like an idiot.
Outside it's beautiful and cool, early spring weather. I'm inside a warren of soundproof walls. Yesterday I took a call about a two year old child who fell into a septic tank. The lid was broken, and the family knew the kids could get it open, but no one ever thought to pay any attention to kids playing in the yard. So these little boys were playing, and the youngest fell inside. He was down in there for at least ten minutes, drowning in the muck and breathing in the fumes of decomposing feces and chemicals. He is in a hospital now, dying. He might already be gone. It was the chemical burns to the lungs, you see, that did him in. His brain is so badly damaged that they don't have any hope of recovery. I think this is bothering me more than I realized, because it has been on my mind. This little boy will die because no one was paying any attention.
I can barely remember being two years old. What if that was all the time you had? Is it a blessing or a curse? What a horrible, lousy way to die. My coworker Josh and I talked about making a road trip to do some ass kicking in connection with our really awful calls. We could be the protective services rangers.
Probably time to start working now.
Twenty five years is a relatively short span of time. But in twenty five years the world changed. Twenty five years is enough to become a burden and sometimes I feel with weight of my life more keenly than other days. I want to leave it, run away and start over somewhere else. Once I said that to someone, in a fit of madness at the end of my adolescence. It was perhaps one of the kindest things he ever did, sending me home that night.
I think about leaving, about buying a house and living there alone in emptiness. About how the dark at night will frighten me, and I will pull the curtains closed. How I will live in constant silence.
The new job makes me not want to answer the phone. I snapped at my mother last night and I didn't mean to. I also missed Melynda's call.
I think about dying all the time. It never leaves me. Every time I drive my car I think about about fragile the line is between safety and catastrophe. My hands shake on the steering wheel and I think about the myriad ways I could crash the car. So many years and I'm still somewhat afraid of driving myself to work.
It is that sort of thing that makes me wonder if there isn't something more seriously wrong with myself than humdrum suburban depression and postmodern life. It's irritating. I would like to just get the hell over it already. I'm almost twenty five and I really don't want the same miseries that I had at seventeen. It just makes me feel like an idiot.
Outside it's beautiful and cool, early spring weather. I'm inside a warren of soundproof walls. Yesterday I took a call about a two year old child who fell into a septic tank. The lid was broken, and the family knew the kids could get it open, but no one ever thought to pay any attention to kids playing in the yard. So these little boys were playing, and the youngest fell inside. He was down in there for at least ten minutes, drowning in the muck and breathing in the fumes of decomposing feces and chemicals. He is in a hospital now, dying. He might already be gone. It was the chemical burns to the lungs, you see, that did him in. His brain is so badly damaged that they don't have any hope of recovery. I think this is bothering me more than I realized, because it has been on my mind. This little boy will die because no one was paying any attention.
I can barely remember being two years old. What if that was all the time you had? Is it a blessing or a curse? What a horrible, lousy way to die. My coworker Josh and I talked about making a road trip to do some ass kicking in connection with our really awful calls. We could be the protective services rangers.
Probably time to start working now.