I hate being unhappy on a beautiful day. Sun shining and big white clouds(in February), and I can't reach any of it. Misanthropic and angry and bitter, and tired from the pointlessness of all those things. There would have been a time when I might have reached for them thinking that they'd make it better. I've long since learned different, and it wears me out with the failure of it. How wasted are those feelings and how broken I still am that they appear in the first place. I'm not afraid of you-of any of you. I'm the only enemy I have left, and really...the only one I ever had.
If you hadn't guessed yet, I'm going to ramble. There's a good chance most of this won't make sense, and what there is that does...well, too fucking bad. I may be cryptic, but damned if I'm dishonest.
Most of the time, I rise in the morning, and go to sleep each night comfortable in my skin and confident of my humanity*. Then I have a day like today, an inside-out day. Chewing on terrible things and catching myself at every corner. Quiet, because I stop having anything to say. I feel like a pantomime shadow-puppet imitation of myself, sustained only by the momentum of the person I was last night when I went to bed. I believe that my life is what I make it. I am constantly, moment-to-moment, in charge of what I do and say and choose. I am.
...
But I'm just so sad. And I can't choose my way out of that, can't bite down on it or reason with it. All those skills and practice prepare me for my guilt and my shame and my anger and my deception (self and otherwise). I have long transcripts of endlessly repeated conversations with myself about control and choice and accountability and judgment...and up against myself, or you, I'm ready. I have my way, my creed, my architecture.
For this, I've got nothing.
I think about wanting a lot. Someone called it Buddhist once. This thing I'm doing. If I don't want anything, there's no outcome to create, no opportunity for sin(best word I could come up with). Everything has to be on the table, too-choice, again. Desire and suffering, don't you know.
So maybe I should kill this, find the belief that leaves me lonely and take it out and talk it to death like I have so many of the other things that stood between me and being happy. Maybe I'd be happy. Serene and blissful and further up, and out. But I don't want to. I'm afraid to. I don't know what would happen if I pulled it off.
I feel unique, special, thinking about this. I think that none of the rest of you can possibly be wrestling with these things, be as wounded as I am, as clear-eyed and good as this self-inflicted dilemma makes me.
But then, I remember The Man On My Couch, and I know that I'm wrong.
Good luck, to all of you.
*I am a human being, I am a creature of choice. Those things, internal or external, that abrogate that choice don't just diminish me, they make me less human.
If you hadn't guessed yet, I'm going to ramble. There's a good chance most of this won't make sense, and what there is that does...well, too fucking bad. I may be cryptic, but damned if I'm dishonest.
Most of the time, I rise in the morning, and go to sleep each night comfortable in my skin and confident of my humanity*. Then I have a day like today, an inside-out day. Chewing on terrible things and catching myself at every corner. Quiet, because I stop having anything to say. I feel like a pantomime shadow-puppet imitation of myself, sustained only by the momentum of the person I was last night when I went to bed. I believe that my life is what I make it. I am constantly, moment-to-moment, in charge of what I do and say and choose. I am.
...
But I'm just so sad. And I can't choose my way out of that, can't bite down on it or reason with it. All those skills and practice prepare me for my guilt and my shame and my anger and my deception (self and otherwise). I have long transcripts of endlessly repeated conversations with myself about control and choice and accountability and judgment...and up against myself, or you, I'm ready. I have my way, my creed, my architecture.
For this, I've got nothing.
I think about wanting a lot. Someone called it Buddhist once. This thing I'm doing. If I don't want anything, there's no outcome to create, no opportunity for sin(best word I could come up with). Everything has to be on the table, too-choice, again. Desire and suffering, don't you know.
So maybe I should kill this, find the belief that leaves me lonely and take it out and talk it to death like I have so many of the other things that stood between me and being happy. Maybe I'd be happy. Serene and blissful and further up, and out. But I don't want to. I'm afraid to. I don't know what would happen if I pulled it off.
I feel unique, special, thinking about this. I think that none of the rest of you can possibly be wrestling with these things, be as wounded as I am, as clear-eyed and good as this self-inflicted dilemma makes me.
But then, I remember The Man On My Couch, and I know that I'm wrong.
Good luck, to all of you.
*I am a human being, I am a creature of choice. Those things, internal or external, that abrogate that choice don't just diminish me, they make me less human.
2 comments:
why do you think I do so many drugs?
jesus christ sky
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