Trump is killing me. I am dying beneath the weight of him. Since November 8 2016, things are gradually leaving me. My creative spark: gone. Any other kind of spark: gone. Abstract thinking: gone. My ability to read anything other than the NY Times or the Washington Post: gone. I don’t even watch movies … I’m completely consumed by cable news, Or YouTube videos of any news I may have missed while I was deciding whether or not to watch a movie.
Swimming is my attempt to live in the moment, focus on breath and motion and the count of each lap. But the moment is only momentary. It doesn’t take long for Trump fears and anger and dread to rise to the surface and then I can’t breathe and I lose count of laps and forget what I am doing in the pool in the first place and then I get embarrassed by how I must look in a bathing suit.
Today as I was getting off the subway train, this guy whispered in my ears, “I saw you smiling at me.” Which kind of freaked me out. I said, “Dude, I haven’t smiled in 1086 days. What is there to smile about? I wouldn’t even know how.” Then he walked away.
I seem to be living a mole’s life. But I am no mole. I ain’t no mole. But sometimes I worry that I might become one. If I let my guard down. But I can’t let my guard down. There is nothing upon this earth that is not under threat of annihilation by Trump. Yet each morning, I awaken on a hopeful note, hopeful he will have died while I was asleep.
Is that really so much to hope for? So many people I love are gone forever. But Trump never dies. I can’t understand why.
Maybe the thing to do is not to think such thoughts and try to attain some level of acceptance. Maybe the thing to do is to love Trump. Because if you love someone, you are far more likely to lose them. That might be the only way to get rid of him once and for all.