Apathy My Friend
We Are Quite Indifferent
Shortest Bond Ever
Tag: writing
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.
The Wilt
Barely feel conscious
My passions passed long ago
Sleep is for the dead
don’t mind me
Just ignore me
No one likes the moody woman cloaked in silence and a hard lined grimace.
You won’t ask me what’s wrong
Because you’re afraid the answer is You.
At first… No.
It isn’t.
The world in all its ignorance upsets me,
Time with its fast paced stroll
Just short of sprinting past me and my memories that are lagging behind in a different era
Yeah.
Time angers me
People in general
Not completely happy with their lives
Tolerable of their friends
Disgusted with their occupations
People … make my head hurt.
And while I am morosely curling into my shell of quiet,
You ignore me.
Content in your bubble colored oblivious
You’ll never ask me what’s wrong.
So with each passing second
It becomes
You.
The Musician
I found
old correspondence
from some years ago
between my former
self and
you,
the always on the road
wielder of stringed instrument
and debaucherous exploits
Former paramour
partner in deviance
and infatuation
What a pair…
Addicted, lustful
heathens
we were
Two moths
Two flames
Destruction was
inevitable,
Of course
But still.
Bemused, I
shook my head
Reading the
To and From
Slightly aggravated
by my own desire and loathing
Your seemingly sincere
yet
apathetic apologies
“You may be crazy, but I am weak. And that’s worse. I don’t know what else to say.”
Clearly.
Our combustion
while not spontaneous
still surprises me
Yet,
After some years
the flames
have all but turned to
simmering, dying embers
in a growing
pile of ash
which along with
the charred
and disintegrating
bits
have been
flying and
flaking
away
to somewhere
not here
But I wonder.
Nowadays,
have your messages
of remorse
to Her
Become any better
Than what they
once were?
Maybe…
you should invest
in a fire extinguisher.
Random Thought of 2008
Found this while cleaning out folders… Yep. Still one of my faves.
Obviously, pulling a rabbit out of a hat is related to magic. So, when it became transformed into “pulling a rabbit out of my/his/her/their ass”, we come to understand it means that someone did the impossible when needed right that moment – Voila, MAGIC! However, my mind being the cesspool of ridiculosity that it is, I began to think of a completely different scenario.
One guy says to the other, “Hey, bet I can pull a rabbit out my ass.” The other guy thinking the first guy is either clowning, high or crazy, says “Sure you can.” So first guy (we’ll call him Bob) throws his arm to his back and it becomes very clear to second guy (eh… George) that Bob’s hand is, indeed, reaching up into his butt. After grimacing, grunting and some gathering of a minor amount of forehead sweat, Bob pulls his hand out and presents to George a hand full of feces and says, “Ta-daa!!!” George, quite disgusted yet somehow stuck on the fact that Bob just did what he did, says to him quietly and very matter-of-fact “That’s not a rabbit, Bob. That’s a handful of shit.” Bob looks down at his hand and then at George. He asks, “But it kinda looks like a rabbit, huh?”
And I wonder why I am still single. This is GOLD!!!!
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.
The Russian
I woke up
after having seen you in my dream
I awoke
and
It was with such
longing
A desire to
really have been so close to you
sitting there
across from your open face
your crooked
happy smile
those eyes
so very nearly
gray
This wretched dream
I remembered
so much
You would leave a peck
on my cheek
while I slept
sprawled and tangled
in the sheets of your bed
Barely a stir
until
Consciousness piqued by the
smell of toast
and your favorite
ramen
I
stumbling out
into the shocking
brightness
one eye open
Your outline
fuzzy
but voice
clear
And I hear you
gentle and
sincere
“Sunshine”
*****
Those memories
brought to surface
by a ridiculous
dream
What I’d give to have kept
sleeping.
Crawlspace
with bated breath
i have waited
gave my mind to death
thoughts cremated
with eyes tight shut
i fell and fell
bruised, banged and cut
otherwise well
asleep with fists
fighting my thirsts
oh how i would miss
being this cursed
Natalie O. 2009
I will savor the taste of your lips
as though it were my last meal
I will breathe you in
as though you were my final breath
I will set aside my doubts
as though I were once again a child
I will take you completely
as though I were the only one who could have you
I will do these things
for the smallest of favors from you
Your embrace
Your stroke
Your presence
Your touch …
to have it linger from the gentle speech of your fingers
the softest echo on my skin
And when you leave
I will wait
ever patient
For the complex richness of the beautiful simplicity
that lies in the way
you make me yours.