Wednesday, 6 May 2009

ME Man Walking

It has been a long while since posting. Holding down a job, family and my inner world is tough, tougher when you have Myalgic Encephalitis (ME) and energy is the currency of consciousness and thought.

Like the world debt, the 3 debts of;
monetary debt;
energy debt and
environmental debt,

without these energies all becomes harder to do, there is collateral, damage and suffering, financially, prosperity and pollution’s death of a thousand cuts.

Well ME is similar as this, only embedded in the personal: physical, mental and conscious. Unhealthy and mind and body numbing.

When it struck me down at the end of 2005, all was lost, and quality of life stolen like a house repossessed by the bank.

See my first poem below on the first wave of devastation and energy starvation, just what will happen to our modern society on this planet soon?

Certainly, as I say in the title and at the end, I am not the voluntary lost, and I think we are all 'not the voluntary lost' in these times of 3 debts coming home, we will all feel like this before the end of my lifetime, not from an illness like my ME, but from the failure of our leaders to address the real 3 debt crisis. God damn it, we even have radar to see the icebergs, but we go on sailing the Titanic of our civilisation at as fast a speed as we can, straight towards the rock of reality that will hole us way below the water line.

Not the voluntary lost
Stage #1
My Myalgic Encephalitis ( M.E.)

I've got the decorators in, but I never invited them here.
They've torn back the wallpaper in uneven slices,
Left ruffled layers of dampened past memories hanging,
Then gone home with paint cans and brushes left out.
I've got the builders in, unwelcomed,
With plans I have not been informed of.
Knocking down walls, breaking plaster and cracking views,
Rearranging the rooms in my slowly ceasing mind.
I can't find my mental list of things to do;
I have looked in all the memory draws I can find,
Everything crammed in and covered by the shadowy weight
Of moving paperwork and once new clothes.
What's left has all been stir-shifted, piled up on the floor,
Or hidden under clueless dustsheets. . .. . ., or broken,. . .. . .. or skipped.
Even I seem different now, not the person I had been.
I haven't the physical or mental strength to move, to wave,
Drowning, stuck in this ocean of verbal inability, cut off.
Me... that is I... am not the voluntary lost.

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