Exhaustion has a strange effect on me. A strange and obnoxious effect, that hijacks my tongue from it's subterrane. I'm stifled by this invisible monster. I'm a time pauper, a beggar for rest, a lady in liquidation.
Being a funeral director can be a tough gig. Each undertaking on it's own is relatively simple, but like Jenga, if you stack each errand atop the other without deliberation and due concentration the tower becomes unsturdy. The citadel collapses.
I crumble.
I miss having the mental energy to write.
The whole operation is basically a case of highly specialised albeit slightly morbid event management. Each death that we come across cannot be isolated in time. The end of a life deserves it's own respected moment, but this is not necessarily the case in reality. In any one week I may have personally fielded over fifty calls from family members enquiring about funeral services rates and procedures. Fifty dead people, requiring immediate and deserved attention. Each unique soul disconnected and recently departed from it's corresponding corporeal flesh. My office is abuzz with bereavement. And somedays, I wish I could switch the latch to engaged on deaths door.
I'm sorry Mr Reaper, please wait until the individual in the cubicle has relieved herself. Thank you.
I'm questioning the sustainability of a profession that observes no boundaries. Can you balance a job that you never really understand? How many people can I help float before I start to sink?
Peace and Love,
S.
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