Russian – “No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”

Vladmir Nabokov

The End I’m supposed to work for

That moment when it begins again,
You don’t know when,
Is this the end?

After years of fighting, trying,
Working towards the goal.

The leaned-back, sun’s shining,
Dancing to that beat,
On a tropical beach,
With your lovely partner by your side,
Secluded from everything, including your worries
And except your butler, who serves you pina coladas until you can’t walk straight.

Is…that what we’re all aiming for?

Why we want to retire by 65 with a good tenure and nothing to worry about?
Why are we even trying to retire at 65, I don’t want to work in an endless cycle for the next 40 or so years.

Is this the end?

The kick-back, with your friends,
Nodding your head to the beat,
Cold beers in your hand,
And nothing but time,
Far away from the troubles of school and work,
Just you and some friends, for a friday drinking session until you go back to work on monday.

Is that the happy ending we want?

Why is it always beer, can we have a nice time without drinking for once?
What even is the joy in the time considering it’s 1 day of 365?

Is this the end? El finito? The ‘that’s all folks!’?
Just…

I know it sounds good.
I should want to enjoy drinks and time with friends and family but…

I don’t want to die without living.
I don’t want to live to work.
Just wanting to make this point,
Without seeming like a jerk.
If all we do is dream all day,
Towards some unreachable goal,
How many days will pass before,
It wears away at your soul?

How many times will I have to say,
I’ll take that overtime,
Before I lose my ability to think,
And I lose my skill to rhyme.
I lose my creativity,
And all that makes me up.
Because without these words within me,
I’m just a pile of stuff.

And I know this is the dream I’m supposed to work for,
But everyone has that pile of stuff.
In the corner of your room, in the corner of your mind.
Of dirty clothes and dead dreams, you forgot while on your grind.

When you were trying to pay that water bill,
That astronaut left your mind,
And those rocketship drawings, shredded.
Replaced by the paperwork you were assigned.

When you were balancing your cable with your credit cards,
The artist in you was left to die,
Along with your stomach, rejecting cheap Chinese food.
Too busy making money, than the food you forgot to buy.

And I know this is the dream I’m supposed to work for,
Because nothing in life in free.
But what’s the point of trying to achieve these dreams,
If at the end of it all, I’m no longer me.

And that moment when it begins again,
Just, you don’t know when,
Is this the end…I was working for?