Note To Self

I’m not fond of it. And it’s something I can never put my finger on. I can be having quite the innocuous day – somewhat pleasant, fairly uneventful, nothing out of the ordinary will have occurred – when I am just dealt the most sucker of punches to my emotional sternum. I feel my mental legs buckling beneath me, slipping into the wash of melancholy, muddy and oppressive.

I am hit with the Sad.
A Bushel of Blegh.

You could lay at my feet all the smiles and laughter that had just been bouncing about, deliver happy chirps of well-meaning pick-me-up cliches, wrap me in the Tomorrow Is Another Day positivity that you keep handy for occasions such as these…

They will all be shunned.

Not because I don’t want any of those and more.
Not because I enjoy the depressing descent into Debbie Downerville.

No.

I will ruin every last bit of bright and shiny you give me. I will dejectedly demolish every grin and chuckle with my clumsy clompy feet. Accidentally muffle and strangulate the once vibrant twittering of good intentions. I will shred to pieces the shawl of optimism, never a chance to warm against the shivering dankness of the dark.

I would rather you keep those bits to yourself. Keep every last piece intact. Protect each one from my awkwardly ambling slippery with the Sad self.

I may be a dumpy mess, but I am not a monster.

Self-Delusion – A Short Essay

9/30/10

Starting again. There is never a brand new fresh start. Reincarnation may exist for a select population of the dead, but for the living we are all still the same leopards hoping that a few coats of dye will change the fact that we have spots. We train ourselves to walk on two legs instead of four, fooling ourselves into the thought that it might make us seem more civilized than our previous state of being. Alas, we are the same animals chained to our basic natures, our basic natures be damned.

I try every day to maintain self-honesty, but no one is perfect. Truth cannot be its abrasive thorny self when twisted into a pretty bow of a lie. And I’ve such a low threshold for pain, especially of the “harsh reality of it all” kind of anguish, so sometimes it’s nice to fool myself with logic because after all, logic has some sort of actual righteous standing, right?

So, knowing that a scorpion will sting the back of a frog even when it promises it won’t, I’ve thrown myself into the same situation thinking that perhaps the tail has run out of venom… maybe the scorpion finally got tired of drowning along with the frog – but unsurprisingly, no. Scorpions sting, the frog drowns. Leopards cannot help their blunt and bold spots wearing through the fade of cheap dye.

There is never really a Fresh Beginning. Not for those who have had the misfortune of having their hearts irrevocably broken. That kind of pain is carried for too long and it seeps in so deep it becomes a natural part of the System. Blood cells, check. Arteries, check. The emotional and psychological stain from the agony of betrayal and unrequited love, Check.

Self-truths… half-truths. They still love me. No… they love knowing that you’ll roll over in an instant just for the chance to spend a night in their arms, for any opportunity to feel their hands roaming across your body once more. They love that you refuse to pursue any other person because you are still under their spell and you just can’t seem to break free. They still want to be with me… They just need time. No, they want you when no one else is available or desiring them. They need time – time to find someone newer, younger, better, etc. You are a convenience, a rest stop, a layover until they reach their final destination.

It’s a horrible thing to be aware of your actual place and meaning in someone else’s life perspective. What is worse is to continue on with a blinding self-deluded belief that perhaps you and that person will start anew, all past altercations and dysfunctions magically erased, smiling faces, hands joined, Happily Ever After smeared across your consciousness.

Apologies to the hopelessly deluded. Reincarnation is for the dead. Repeat that daily and maybe you won’t be too blindsided when they finally find the better option that they had been holding out for.

not altogether something

Like the clumsy clingy kisses of an ardent amateur lover, I could feel the grotesque stickiness of the summer night fumbling over my exposed limbs. In my car, windows down, my fingers felt the steering wheel going gummy. My poor dilapidated beast of transport’s AC couldn’t even bother to sputter out lukewarm air.

And what the hell was that smell?

Having lost the space to roam in the soft cushiony crevices of my brain, thoughts were crashing haphazardly into the walls of my skull, headache soon to arrive. I almost ran through the red.

Stopped, engine idling, a small horde of hipsters crossed the street. Young, laughing, debating music, art and authors. Attired in mock jadedness and cynicism, the hope of possibility could not be shrouded by such a farce. Their stroll was far too strident, cheeks too rosy, smiles too genuine.

And it occurred to me, I knew this because I envied them. I was jealous of the world being their cliched oyster. Pensive, sweaty and sad, I accepted one of the first of many truths to come. I had lost touch with who I was. Lost sight of who I had wanted to be.

Green means Go.

Tired foot off the brake, I continued my sojourn home. Broke, poor, lonely, lost – I randomly eyed my neighborhood. The place I was conceived and born into. The same place I fled the moment I had the chance. The one and only place to which I returned when nowhere else would have me.

Back to square one. So it would seem.