I cannot do this anymore.

 

I cannot do this again.

It has cost me too much. 

I have nothing left. 

When will this end?

When will this end? When will the day arrive when, instead of the constancy of painful unmet promise,  I finally receive that which has been promised? Promised again, and again, and never ever within my grasp, never in my arms. I hurt. I hurt with the wanting, with the effort of reaching, and with the loss of days and weeks and years of my life, always believing I will receive what you told me I would. I hurt. I hurt with the longing, with the aching gap of the unfulfilled. I ache with the pain of the disappointment that is coming, again, as all the other disappointments have, scheduled with military precision in the sorry, undone, unpaid, unrewarded, unrelenting farce of my foolish, generous hope. I have paid and paid again for your lies, and yet I am here, still, waiting, as if there is any agency left for me to do otherwise. I ache with the shape of all that is missing, the absence that I feel with every fibre of my self. I ache with knowing the fullness of this loss, guarded by the silence of your feigned ignorance. This is what you have done. This is what you have done to me, while you parade around in your fulsome, rewarded lives. And you, who promised you would be there for me, you have done this to me more than anyone else, and that too, is a loss that I live every day. So I ask again, when will this end? When will the day arrive when I finally get something? 

 

I ache. 

Interminable

How can this be? How can this be that, after all this time, I am confronted by the same interminable struggle? How can this be the case, when I have done so much, for so many? How is it that this thing is always just out of reach, so that I will be unable to grasp that which should be in reach? Where has the fundamental failure of planning, of implementation occurred? And why has everything cost me so, so much, so many times over, and over and over again? How can this be that I am trapped in this maze of mirrors, where the reflection is that which I have done, that was difficult, tedious, stressful, unpleasant, and yet, here it is again, in front and behind me in an infinite distortion that occupies every possible line of my sight? I don't understand why my effort doesn't merit reward, or even the simple satisfaction of fruition, completion. I don't understand why I have not been paid. I don't understand why $1000 by next week is so incomprehensibly impossible for me to find, to have, to pay, when the assumption made by others is that I should have it to pay, as they do, as surely I must appear to them to be able. So why is there this yawning gap between the way things look, between the unstated assumptions that drive the requirements that are placed upon me, and the hard reality of the grinding imperatives that drive me to be sitting here at 5:00am on an impossible deadline that looks no more assured of success than every other thing that was promised, and not delivered? How can you allow this to be?