Our work is never over.

As I told whoever happened to ask, this week defeated my finite body and mind by Tuesday. Afternoon.

Why and why and what is with putting on a nice shirt, black pants, black socks, and making sure the tie fits correctly to watch digital reminders that certain people on the other side of the world exist in heartache and strength and joy, just like we do on this side. Except, for the most part, we are kidding ourselves. And they are struggling to feed their children. Aren't we kidding ourselves? Aren't I?

And yet here we are. Trying to make sense of our lifestyles, plans and inhibitions. Justifying them, I guess, to make sense of what's practical, logical and effective... but mostly to adjust them to our own state of being finite. Practical often means watering down our own de-efficiencies to step up to what supposedly moves us. But I've come to terms with that. I think, individually, we expect the most of ourselves and we are the most critical of ourselves and an important step to humility and reality and surviving (mentally) is in acknowledging that we are finite creatures.

Here we are, running in circles, trying to keep tabs on all the people that have made a place in our lives, making room for them, because... here's my defense, what are we supposed to do? We can spend our time picking fights, getting mad and fuming about how we feel neglected from... well, what does it matter? But we do, don't we? We love to tell our friends about it, and they love to feign interest because - and I mean this - they love us, and they're not always feigning interest... they may be listening, they may be able to recall what we said, and they might even (if we're lucky) continue to dwell on what we told them, on what trivial moments took place in our lives that we, for whatever reason, decided to share with them.

And maybe we hear those things because we care and because, sometimes, we can actively aid our friends in addition to patiently listening to them, and perhaps - on some innocent level - there's a refuge of escapism in living vicariously and sympathetically, temporarily, taking on someone else's burdens, even if we continue to bear them after the conversation is over.

It's a game. And some don't stop playing, while others claim (sometimes truthfully) that we're sick of it. That we can't take it anymore! There are so many other issues that shake us to our bones and we are revealing, every day, that we are finite to them. And yet, here we are. Still here, existing and not erased from existence. If the universe made any sense at all, we would be already be erased from existence. Wiped from the Earth. Yet here we are. Calling out when they're asleep, reaching out as they laugh at us, and wrapping our arms around when they doubt us.