“Please promise me that I won’t have to die here, that if I’m terminally ill you’ll take me somewhere else so this isn’t the last place I see before I die.” I said that to my husband after I put in yet another weekend working. I don’t understand why we are working so hard. No, truly, I do not.
There is not much I need so there isn’t a whole lot I want. Money doesn’t mean more than food, shelter, and hygiene to me. It really never has. There have been times when I have desired new stuff- clothes, shoes, furniture but those days are long past. I own practically everything I need. Naturally socks and underwear will need to be replenished at some point; maybe my shoes will wear out before I finally kick it and I’ll need to get some more someday. For everyday survival I’m pretty well provisioned.
Why then must we work so hard? Why can’t we work enough to continue surviving, thinking simple happy thoughts through the years we have left? Quite frankly, I don’t derive any satisfaction at all from the work I do. Not one iota of my identity is derived from the workplace, nary a molecule of the self lingers at my desk after I’ve quit for the day.
If I am struck by terminal illness I’ll be leaving here quite a while before the final curtain falls so I can enjoy the view somewhere else.