Beats Per Minutia
An infrequent fragile rhythm equated to the final stage of grieving. An acceptance of losing my job and everything that follows.
My future is unemployed. The announcement of severance deployed. No future to be had in this current job.
Severed, cut off, removed in three weeks. Trapped and ensnared into not prematurely leaving for good, which would be leaving for bad. Be leaving is believing that I need to stay through the last day to sever properly.
Proper excision is to maintain being seen in my work space till our very ending. Everything I worked for and towards, the work I was doing is no more.
Three more weeks of sitting and waiting, waiting and sitting; watching the strong ties once weaved become weakened and untied. United we watch the fragile bonds crack and shatter.
Trapped in doldrums of percussive nothingness. All to receive “blood money” from the murdering of jobs.
Trying to be. Questioning what is, questioning what my time is worth, questioning why some cannot let me be — happy, sad, melancholy, angry, bored, accepting — all at the same time, separately, and nothing at all.
Acceptance, the “final stage.” To accept is to regard as inevitable, to recognize as true, to endure without protest (Merriam Webster 2022). Enduring the tick tick of time until the official severing.
Tick. Now is the time for me to unlearn impatience, to un-impatience myself, to be ok with waiting. Tick. Now is the time for my stamina to go through incessant durations of endurance testing. Tick. Now is the time to edify my self-compassion. Tick. Now is the time to chill my wits, my tits, my fits, and my bits. Tick.
When the timer reaches zero, will the buzzer feel like an endless void that I will attempt to fill? Shall I just let the moment be, allow myself to be?
Be be be be be — Move through this while healing within this — be be be be Be.
