It’s Amazing

It’s amazing how your stats show you who’s reading your emotional guff, all over the world, people are tuning into my bad reality show as I pour my undeserving heart out through my finger tips and onto the black keys of my cheap Logitech keyboard. Sifting through my selfish mind I find myself wanting everything then considering others with nothing and feeling guilty for the way it turned out, us on the ‘rich’ side of the world craving more of what we already have to sustain ourselves comfortably, and those on the ‘poor’ side of the world, grateful for the days treasure found on top a mound at the dump.

Here’s me whinging about not being able to afford to have any children when those with nothing have three or four by my age and quite possibly feel rich with them and not needing monetary gains in order to have their family, only a little for food, perhaps some charity at Christmas time. They live their lives this way while I sit and complain about my iPhone battery dying too quickly. In my depressive state I think a lot on these small fortunes I was born into and whether I deserve them and whether I should give them away. If I didn’t consider the so called ‘third world’ countries, if it were just this country I would be in the poor category were it not for my partner I wouldn’t be too far away from homeless. I scrape together what I have to buy my tech, what he saves me by providing me a home. My food and clothes are easily bought week to week but I would be poor to those who can buy new cars once a year and redecorate when they feel like it, get married and have extravagant weddings. I can’t afford any of those things so I think I would be considered poor by their standards.
Today I never felt so rich. Sitting in a Harvester with a £10.79 main course, with some Aunts and Uncles discussing times past and laughing at all the mishaps that certainly weren’t amusing at the time. Then coming home with a full belly to a warm house that was bought for me by my man who was boarding the loft for me so that I have some place to stash all of my junk. I could reach into the cupboard and pick something sealed and safe to eat, turn the tap and release the clean water. I spend my life complaining about my work because it doesn’t pay enough, complaining about strangers who are only asking for help, and really feel tiny in comparison to the world and all it’s problems and I think to myself that if I went and found my dream job, whatever that is, would it turn into my nightmare? Am I here because I am meant to be here? Meant to be enjoying every one of these moments that I am breathing life into my lungs and ignoring all of the bad things surrounding me.

I got this way not through having to work for a living, although it doesn’t help sometimes, I turned into this depressive ball of misery when I started to lose people. A Grandfather, a Great Aunt, a Grandmother, a friend, a Niece. These were the moments that chiselled pieces of me away and left a vulnerable version of me, all pink and squidgy, mortal me, money didn’t do this to me, work didn’t do this to me, so when I find myself thinking if I could just get a better job with more money I will be happy… No I won’t.

If I could have them back, I will be happy.

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