...because we know it shall rise again...
I feel...
...left behind.
I feel like now that the sun is out again and everyones' winter depression is freshly thawed, that adoring sense of inner peace that comes along with the carefree days of summer has returned to the people of earth.
...apparently all of them but me.
I think I'm afraid to feel good. My oscillating emotions surely can no longer be a shock to my system, I've been putting up with them for years. However, it always seems that as soon as things are starting to feel right again, I always have at least a few nits to pick out.
No one can expect their life to be perfect - and that's just it...I don't want nor do I expect perfection. But at the same time, I can't help but shake this feeling that I'm living out something that is far from ideal.
Does that make any sense?
It's just that everything begins to feel like a cycle. Weeks of nauseatingly dull drama (all played out in my psyche, as such drama could only exist there), a long hour of conversing with myself, fixation on a handful of songs that I swear I'm living, an epiphany wherein I finally convince myself that everything's alright (as I'm certain it truly is), an ephemeral sense of serenity that will soon be shattered by marked points of overanalysis.
If I could just skip the beginning and keep in my mind the constant notion that within a week or two I'll know that none of this bullshit matters, I would be fine.
And when I say bullshit...believe me, I mean bullshit.
Bullshit like never being satisfied by my surroundings. My father's house with all of its clutter and it's whirlwinding arguments regarding self-worth, sexual taste...and what to put on the television. Calamity itself resides among us, it's physical body sits on a broken cement foundation right on the corner of Nicholas Square.
And yet...all of its noise, its chatter, its movement...it makes me feel like I'm never alone.
And then there's my mother's house. Isolated from the people who (try to) keep me sane, a fat dunce for a stepbrother, and my mother herself, along with Bob...two crazed lovers who are just as likely to get married as they are to murder the other in their sleep.
But, that house has the most precious room in the universe. It's clean...no I mean really clean. That kind of clean that only a mother can create. Shampooed carpets and shiny windows, dust free wooden surfaces. It's bright, it's alive, and it's comfortable. Its cleanliness suggests OCD...and you know what, that almost makes me feel like I'm living at home again.
So I guess...if I had to choose, I'd say that I feel much more peaceful and at rest when I'm with my mother in Bethel. Although I have only a computer monitor as my window to the outside world, things just feel better when I'm there.
Pieces of life are in constant repetition. Friends, boyfriends, arguments, first kisses...they all exist within every moment. Drama I thought I left behind in high school still haunts me today. People I thought I had forgotten after 6th grade smoke a joint with me in their cars on my 19th birthday.
All emotion and all logic come back to center themselves again. I don't believe that peace and balance exist...moreover I think they're just steps in the impossible to explain/describe circle of feeling. All the fucked up things I've said...that anyone has said - they all still follow you, moment to moment, building up along with every other moment you have lived in your life - and they just continue to rewind and replay before your eyes over and over again.
Why fret loss today? In a week - it's bullet wound will transform to mere bee sting.
When I think about all of the stupid things I've cried over...I know now just to convince myself that within a short period of time, none of them will matter.
I guess it sounds cynical. But I don't mean it that way. I'm more sincere than you can imagine.
Of course there's a flipside. Naturally if we're to forget about mourning loss, then we must forget about celebrating gain.
Don't bother crying tears of joy when you get that first kiss from the silly boy down the street you've been pining for since you were eleven. In three weeks, those kisses will already begin to feel tired.
I suppose all of that boils right down to invalidating emotion. Why bother when it all changes so fast?
I don't want to live life that way...and I can't encourage anyone else to.
Oh well...back to the drawing board as they say...
...left behind.
I feel like now that the sun is out again and everyones' winter depression is freshly thawed, that adoring sense of inner peace that comes along with the carefree days of summer has returned to the people of earth.
...apparently all of them but me.
I think I'm afraid to feel good. My oscillating emotions surely can no longer be a shock to my system, I've been putting up with them for years. However, it always seems that as soon as things are starting to feel right again, I always have at least a few nits to pick out.
No one can expect their life to be perfect - and that's just it...I don't want nor do I expect perfection. But at the same time, I can't help but shake this feeling that I'm living out something that is far from ideal.
Does that make any sense?
It's just that everything begins to feel like a cycle. Weeks of nauseatingly dull drama (all played out in my psyche, as such drama could only exist there), a long hour of conversing with myself, fixation on a handful of songs that I swear I'm living, an epiphany wherein I finally convince myself that everything's alright (as I'm certain it truly is), an ephemeral sense of serenity that will soon be shattered by marked points of overanalysis.
If I could just skip the beginning and keep in my mind the constant notion that within a week or two I'll know that none of this bullshit matters, I would be fine.
And when I say bullshit...believe me, I mean bullshit.
Bullshit like never being satisfied by my surroundings. My father's house with all of its clutter and it's whirlwinding arguments regarding self-worth, sexual taste...and what to put on the television. Calamity itself resides among us, it's physical body sits on a broken cement foundation right on the corner of Nicholas Square.
And yet...all of its noise, its chatter, its movement...it makes me feel like I'm never alone.
And then there's my mother's house. Isolated from the people who (try to) keep me sane, a fat dunce for a stepbrother, and my mother herself, along with Bob...two crazed lovers who are just as likely to get married as they are to murder the other in their sleep.
But, that house has the most precious room in the universe. It's clean...no I mean really clean. That kind of clean that only a mother can create. Shampooed carpets and shiny windows, dust free wooden surfaces. It's bright, it's alive, and it's comfortable. Its cleanliness suggests OCD...and you know what, that almost makes me feel like I'm living at home again.
So I guess...if I had to choose, I'd say that I feel much more peaceful and at rest when I'm with my mother in Bethel. Although I have only a computer monitor as my window to the outside world, things just feel better when I'm there.
Pieces of life are in constant repetition. Friends, boyfriends, arguments, first kisses...they all exist within every moment. Drama I thought I left behind in high school still haunts me today. People I thought I had forgotten after 6th grade smoke a joint with me in their cars on my 19th birthday.
All emotion and all logic come back to center themselves again. I don't believe that peace and balance exist...moreover I think they're just steps in the impossible to explain/describe circle of feeling. All the fucked up things I've said...that anyone has said - they all still follow you, moment to moment, building up along with every other moment you have lived in your life - and they just continue to rewind and replay before your eyes over and over again.
Why fret loss today? In a week - it's bullet wound will transform to mere bee sting.
When I think about all of the stupid things I've cried over...I know now just to convince myself that within a short period of time, none of them will matter.
I guess it sounds cynical. But I don't mean it that way. I'm more sincere than you can imagine.
Of course there's a flipside. Naturally if we're to forget about mourning loss, then we must forget about celebrating gain.
Don't bother crying tears of joy when you get that first kiss from the silly boy down the street you've been pining for since you were eleven. In three weeks, those kisses will already begin to feel tired.
I suppose all of that boils right down to invalidating emotion. Why bother when it all changes so fast?
I don't want to live life that way...and I can't encourage anyone else to.
Oh well...back to the drawing board as they say...