My Dad's conversations 'often, though not always repeat,
I don't believe he has dementia,
I only mention it, as it rolls my thoughts.
I think I might prefer to go camping, if I had dementia,
Die alone, when no longer able to care for myself,
Though on another hand, that sounds rather painful.
I suppose there are dangerous occupations or pursuits in life, one can take,
Whether for glory, pleasure, or help towards others.
. . .
People who commit suicide,
Or people who commit mass shooting,
They're not the same,
But my mind ties a line in their seeming giving up,
Though I suppose the mass shooter might be working towards something in their last moments,
Such pathetic reasons, logic, motivations, targets they have.
Of course suicide is often a spontaneous action I hear,
Though not always,
And there can be reasons beyond or in despair for people I suppose,
In how they see their life and action,
Still seems a bit a waste,
Not that people 'have to live for others,
But, people often 'want to have had meaning,
Though meaning can be found in solitude and self.
. . .
If I went to sleep in the morning after work,
I could wake up around noon, still get sun, be more sensible, alert,
But I'm happy to be off work, suddenly a bit energized,
All the more if I eat,
Well, I sleep after work sometimes.