The time passes, whatever time is, among the things to be contemplated within reality, which happens to be called metaphysics. One of the many concepts that keeps me baffled almost all the while is, exactly what time is it, anyway. Some people around me seem to be as baffled by the passage, or even the existence of time as I am. The disoriented among the people who think like me in this way, is that we happen to be in some institutional stupor most commonly, except that many of the seniors I’ve lived with so far, are predictably impatient at mealtimes.

The elderly fear their needs won’t be met in their twilight years. They fear for the final countdown of days, and what lies ahead of them beyond those days. They lack the essential experience to result in their comfort. Many seniors are a lot more fearful, overall, than the young and the middle aged mentally ill. People in their youth or middle age may certainly have their disorders and maladjustment’s to carry with them, but they don’t face the basic questions the way seniors do.

Death is not immediate problem with the mentally ill, unless they’re compulsively suicidal. Even at the crossroads of suicide, many candidates don’t seem to have been told that suicide won’t get you anything you want. Ideation is singularly irrational, for the most part, and keeping those folks from destroying themselves can be a full time job in itself. As anything else, what is needed is a deeply spiritual experience in the hearts of people on the brink. One is in dire need of facing their worth to the Deo, until they find a worth of self in knowing Him.

I’ve been one of those people, until Deo liberated me.

People of middle age or less, since I’m still within that age bracket, the few of us here are a generation younger than most of the others at assisted living. Many of us, generally, are more cognizant of the days of the week, than some of us perpetually distracted meta-physicists and disoriented residents happen to be. Non-residents are quicker to tell you a date or a day of the week than any of us could do accurately. But we aren’t simply prosecuting the clock here. How many actually get passed the preacher and pulpit, to make a rational interaction with their Maker Himself?

How do other people, among all these earth people, manage to accomplish such a feat as keeping track of time? Doubt they consider the issue like this. The consideration happens to be a continual mystery to fascinate and intrigue me, but such a state does not engender the desired result. Earth people continue to squander their lives marking time with their awareness of what could scarcely be referred to as the reality of which I speak. They continue to go to hold themselves to their work schedules, for the almighty dollar, keeping their noses to the corporate grind stone. Have they never gone beyond the talking, and asked themselves, much less their Deo, personally, about forever?

How those people ever accomplish derailing themselves long enough to perform the humdrum endeavor of holding down a j-o-b for m-o-n-e-y is beyond my comprehension. I’m more involved in being awakened naturally before the sun has been warm. It’s a carry over from a lifetime of rampant insomnia. My disorientation is so eloquently written about, by the late, great Earnest Hemingway, “The Sun Also Rises,” he says. Mr Hemingway, I’m told, lived a wild and unruly existence, even more so than my own humbled forms of rebellion in my own precarious lifetime.

I’m only one more recovering insomniac.

There’s not as much room in this world for dreamers and seekers of visions, as there once was. In the Americas, before the big confrontation with the natives, there were hunters and fisherman, which are both honorable occupations, if one has the know how. They were misnamed while they dreamed with their poles, practicing patience while fishing, surrounded by abundance of every good thing. This is the great mystery so many workaday people in America fail to realize, as the “functioning” people of today consider “slackers” only annoying.

Writers are what’s left of the least of all of the dreamers, most others gone by the wayside.

There are those who listen to or read the many stories of Deo talking to people in Haggeon, and wonder why it is He only talks in the story, have been sadly misinformed by “functioning” people, who dutifully wait for the overall sense of the sermon, to go home to nothing more than the Sunday roast in the oven. They never venture to call upon the Haggeon to speak to them personally, while their breath remains strong within them. “Functioning” people generally have no clue how to humble themselves. There requires a certain of servitude of demeanor in approaching the Deo initially.

Does He who formed the mouth not speak? Does He who formed the ear not hear?

My cognitive processes are an awful lot less responsive than they once were. A prescribing physician once remarked that he wished I hadn’t gummed up my mind with all the chemicals I once took. He did not, however, give me the telephone number of any time machine offices in the area. Guess I’ll be facing more naturally derived consequences of my mistakes like everybody else does. Repent now, and avoid the rush on dooms day. Dooms day would be a rush for people who don’t have things worked out for their souls. Of the consequences I’m anticipating, I’m practical with the things which are natural results to what I did in a monumentally confused life. For instance, going over to those young men’s house at all hours, and devil may care who liked it?

Then, why it is they conspired to total my car?

Clip my wings to keep me from flying?

Why is it the grandfather upstairs kicks in my windows?

Get revenge for talking to his teenage granddaughter?

Spent my entire youth piling up consequences on my head in every direction. Can’t imagine how I survived, much less prospered, as one more silly dreamer. If it weren’t for the Deo keeping me, I would have never made it this far. Done things I’m surprised no one shot me with a gun for now and then. Some of the people I was playing with, when I was far gone I was an easy target without any marksmanship required. They withheld their own arsenals and lawyers to back them up. I guess some of them really were my friends, or Deo tying their hands.

Spent a lot of time and insurance money, developing my very own incurable case of institutional thinking. I try not to think about going to a state hospital in the State of Virginia, but my take on it is that the environment would simply be familiar to me, after moments of adjustment. Then I ask myself why it is I desperately need a med tech twice a day, can’t set up my own medications under penalty of another involuntary overdose?

Why it is that I can only sleep in a building that has a lot of other people living in it?

I’ve already spent a lot of years behind the locked doors of a state hospital. I’ll relearn how to tune out the television and the neon lights overhead, with my unquenchable creativity. I’d probably be good to go with a little effort. Only thing I’d like one to do is to bring me a couple of writing pads fairly often, and some led pencils the staff doesn’t mind sharpening sometimes, with good erasers involved there somewhere. I’d go back to bone knives and bear skins if I had to. Shutter to think I’d have to regress the whole way back, but I already know it wouldn’t kill me if I positively had to.

Many doctors I schedule with, would be vexed with me, except the nurse keeps time well enough, as does the van driver. One appointment got derailed in my relocation. Keeping time is a feat monumentally challenging for me, for some several reasons beyond me to account for. Just the other day I asked several people what day it was, on the same day, because I was repeatedly disoriented. Asking others was the only recourse I could think of that day, when I might have checked the computer. I’ve gone to the nurse who schedules me, but she, uncharacteristically, knew nothing of what I asked.

I’ve begun to abide in assisted living homes a few year ago, which association must accelerate my mental aging process quite involuntarily, certainly beyond my own volition. I don’t want this premature aging thing to happen to me, it just is happening. I don’t fear the world which is to come, having conversed at some length with Deo, as I alluded to. Still relatively vital, in comparison to many of the people around me, I have my faults and my misconceptions just same as anyone does. I have my expectations of what’s coming, in an overall sense, and look forward to crossing over.


About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at
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