"That's what I do"

Damn I hate this funkity-funk.
The other night at my party someone had to get all philosophical. “If you were going to die next week what would you do differently?”
Of course the one who asked it stated she would change nothing. Those people are very rare and very satisfied with their lives and make people like me (who work for a paycheck, live for the future, and medicate to numb the knowledge) feel like unfulfilled shit.

KC took over the catering at my party. She's a chef. When I thanked her she just said, “That’s what I do”
Nita paints, Mimi writes, R codes, Ramrod acts, 3 is a musician: That’s what they do.
There’s nothing for me to claim. I’ve quit everything I ever did; either lost the passion or talent, or never had it. There is nothing employment or career wise I crave
Apparently I get depressed. “It’s what I do”

Every other moment I feel like I’m falling apart.
So many things pile up around me, trembling hands seeking the mundane rituals of survival. I’m even loosing my grip on the day to day.

Control, control, control
Escape, escape, escape

Frustration: my creativity blocked, my understandings shaken, little anxieties become huge, questions of life become less broad strokes of future planning and more immediately urgent.

Suddenly aware of how: small, lost, and stupid I am.

Design and Fatigue
equals
the life expectancy of and object.
The creator decides and barring the final malfunction
Our design flaw is we are given choices.

Choices are the on off switch that puts strain on the filament that can lengthen or shorten the designed span which (in theory) is the length of usefulness.

Can you cry under water?

Why do people ask me for direction? Do I look any less lost than anyone else? I haven’t got anything figured out. Most of the time I’m looking up at the buildings, a sure sign of a tourist. Maybe it’s the accidental contact. Eye contact, proximity, a thread of familiarity. The way acquaintances become friends. Having these mutual interests or friends create situations: you bump into, and recognize, someone often enough or for long enough and voila…old friend.
But I am still just as lost as you old friend. This is where I live. Where I walk to work everyday. Here, this is habit. I am looking for direction too. With my eyes to the skyline it is my silent search you interrupt: as you explain you are trying to find the train. Your solution is to leave, to escape. I want to shout that the train will always be there. Don’t ask others to direct your journey. You’re a block away; you’ll get there soon enough. I still want the answers the adventure promised. But it’s only a walk to work and it is just some stranger looking for the train. Some stranger who would likely ignore my stumble as we move towards the exit, watch me as I pitch forward grabbing at anything to prevent the platform from embracing my nose dive, mercifully walk around me as I pick myself up from the ground: a close call.
Were not old friends, were not even acquaintances. Why would you care? Would I reach out? Do I? Did I?