Too Much, Too Young, Too Fast
I am beginning to wonder why the good times, without exception, always cause me to think on, and consequently relive, the bad times (while at the same time I wonder why my vocabulary is failing me).
I for the life of me cannot simply sit in a good situation, contented, and take it for what it is. Well, there is exception to this, though those exceptions are becoming increasingly distant. There was not so long ago, a time when I could see my situation as pleasant, and not immediately question it, or relate it to a lesser time. I could happily and lazily sit about with someone I cared deeply for and not wonder when they would leave, why they would leave, and how I would feel afterward; I certainly wouldn’t be thinking about how I used to feel - that was the past and what mattered was the present. But now that present is the past too, and I’m still stuck in it.
Even now I’m perpetuating this habit - this weekend was one of the best I’ve had in… probably half a year, and yet, here I am, unable to focus on that, but rather I’m dwelling bits and pieces of the big picture that I’d rather not even notice, much less pick apart. And therein lies another problem I have in this situation - the only person I truly talk to about these memories is myself. With everyone else (as is plainly obvious in this vague mess), I remain obscure and purposefully enigmatic. Why? In all honesty, I haven’t figured it out; I hate sounding stupid in front of people, and I know I sound stupid to myself.
There is something else I’m beginning to question - does the subconscious trigger thoughts in the conscious mind or is it the reverse? Or is it both? I can’t put my finger on it in my own experience, and I wonder if mankind as a whole has come up with an answer to that one. Part of it seems like my subconscious has lead me to this incessant barrage of memory and reflection; I can’t get over the same few dreams I keep having. The first time it flared up again (a month ago?), it held my focus the rest of the following day - is that why it returned in my dream the next night? And the next? The chicken or the egg indeed.
I drive West on Ray Road and sigh heavily as I notice that the Rural and Ray light stayed green. It never did before, but no one would care enough if I told them. Not now. I avoid driving in the far left lane for fear of crying. Ganem Jewelers makes me cry and only afterwards do I remember it as being the parking lot I was rear-ended near. Rubik’s cubes are both an escape and a reminder and I laugh at the irony of it. And then I cry. I loathe using anything I’ve learned in the past year because I start thinking too much and that’s not a situation I like to be in. I train myself to become better at things I would rather not even be doing in the first place.
I do most of what I do out of spite. I do most of what I do to prove to myself that I can move on. Now doesn’t that make sense?
I’ve spent a good majority of the past month’s nights staring at my ceiling. I try different ways to stop thinking - I count, I hum, I do anything that occupies just enough of my mental capacity so as not to leave any cracks through which new thoughts can creep. Many of these nights I find the ceiling goes blurry and the pillow is wet and I can never figure out exactly why. I look to my right and see nothing there, and then more blurs. I try to find something to attribute it to - sometimes I’ll purposely find the saddest ASPCA commercial imaginable just so I can say that’s what did it. I let it all out and then pretend nothing happened; after all, those dogs aren’t on screen now, are they?
What am I accomplishing here? At the very least, it’s been a few minutes I’ve spent doing something, and anything that keeps me occupied fits my current criteria of a savior. And yet, in doing something, I’ve remembered everything and accomplished nothing.
The pen is mightier than the sword, and I may have just impaled myself.
I for the life of me cannot simply sit in a good situation, contented, and take it for what it is. Well, there is exception to this, though those exceptions are becoming increasingly distant. There was not so long ago, a time when I could see my situation as pleasant, and not immediately question it, or relate it to a lesser time. I could happily and lazily sit about with someone I cared deeply for and not wonder when they would leave, why they would leave, and how I would feel afterward; I certainly wouldn’t be thinking about how I used to feel - that was the past and what mattered was the present. But now that present is the past too, and I’m still stuck in it.
Even now I’m perpetuating this habit - this weekend was one of the best I’ve had in… probably half a year, and yet, here I am, unable to focus on that, but rather I’m dwelling bits and pieces of the big picture that I’d rather not even notice, much less pick apart. And therein lies another problem I have in this situation - the only person I truly talk to about these memories is myself. With everyone else (as is plainly obvious in this vague mess), I remain obscure and purposefully enigmatic. Why? In all honesty, I haven’t figured it out; I hate sounding stupid in front of people, and I know I sound stupid to myself.
There is something else I’m beginning to question - does the subconscious trigger thoughts in the conscious mind or is it the reverse? Or is it both? I can’t put my finger on it in my own experience, and I wonder if mankind as a whole has come up with an answer to that one. Part of it seems like my subconscious has lead me to this incessant barrage of memory and reflection; I can’t get over the same few dreams I keep having. The first time it flared up again (a month ago?), it held my focus the rest of the following day - is that why it returned in my dream the next night? And the next? The chicken or the egg indeed.
I drive West on Ray Road and sigh heavily as I notice that the Rural and Ray light stayed green. It never did before, but no one would care enough if I told them. Not now. I avoid driving in the far left lane for fear of crying. Ganem Jewelers makes me cry and only afterwards do I remember it as being the parking lot I was rear-ended near. Rubik’s cubes are both an escape and a reminder and I laugh at the irony of it. And then I cry. I loathe using anything I’ve learned in the past year because I start thinking too much and that’s not a situation I like to be in. I train myself to become better at things I would rather not even be doing in the first place.
I do most of what I do out of spite. I do most of what I do to prove to myself that I can move on. Now doesn’t that make sense?
I’ve spent a good majority of the past month’s nights staring at my ceiling. I try different ways to stop thinking - I count, I hum, I do anything that occupies just enough of my mental capacity so as not to leave any cracks through which new thoughts can creep. Many of these nights I find the ceiling goes blurry and the pillow is wet and I can never figure out exactly why. I look to my right and see nothing there, and then more blurs. I try to find something to attribute it to - sometimes I’ll purposely find the saddest ASPCA commercial imaginable just so I can say that’s what did it. I let it all out and then pretend nothing happened; after all, those dogs aren’t on screen now, are they?
What am I accomplishing here? At the very least, it’s been a few minutes I’ve spent doing something, and anything that keeps me occupied fits my current criteria of a savior. And yet, in doing something, I’ve remembered everything and accomplished nothing.
The pen is mightier than the sword, and I may have just impaled myself.