Pocket Oxford Memory Loss


Some of us move in circles

but all struggle

 - all must (, somehow, no?)

when i look at the next person,

 - i plead that happy person suffers (, somehow, no?)

and that i am normal


I walked amongst your roses, ladybug nana. I walked amongst your roses whilst my simpleton father wheeled washing-machine motors from your tiny backyard garage past my pop with dementia. You were teary, apologetic and you couldn't do anything.

Dad didn't want me to go, Dad didn't want to do it, but he seemed less like he was going to assault his own mother by the time we left. It wasn't hurting anyone being in the garage, but pop wanted them out because he's lost the ability to engage with reality. At first I was certain Dad was so angry because he was insistent on the stupid motors being at his parents', but its clear now the reason is far, far more petty.

In his head, the man is entitled to everything. He's entitled to leave shit where-ever he wants it, lie about whatever he wants to, do as little work as he pleases, and to work my mother to death.

I don't care any more, man, I feel awful.