Drop That!
Apparently sometimes Life takes a ruler to the old knuckles, you know?
I have these problems, these clingy clingy problems where I treat existence itself as a mnemonic device, utilizing physical objects to reassure me that yes, I exist, and yes, those things happened. I rely on people places and/or things to build life, letting the wear of familiar tread on carpet comfort me in the past, present, and future. Objects become symbols become feelings.
I have a box that I keep things in, an assortment of things that were perhaps everyday once upon a time, but have faded. If I open the lid and pull out something, the where and how I was then spreads outward from my hands, and I can rebuild momentarily the circumstances surrounding.
This is why I take things like loss hard. I grasp and clutch at the remnants of the past few years, but Life has decided to let them scatter and fade.
Tonight was one of those end of an era things. Sitting the bar I used to go to before I was 21, drinking lemonade and laughing so hard my face hurts. Watching a cast of characteres cycle in and cycle through, seeing some of them for the first time in months and knowing that it could be the last time I see them ever. The bookstore I worked in for three years is closing, and my psyche is shocked and dismayed at the possibility. It wants permanance, it wants to know that my name traced in dust back on the highest shelf in the warehouse is still there, waiting, if I choose to look for it. Walking inside from the rain, pushing through the glass double doors, you can see the bits and pieces slowly leaving and parts of the store growing dark. So much happened there, in between shelves and over the intercom and in the back room. All these people filtering in and out, all the friends I met and moved in with and kissed and got drunk with, shallow glimmering trails attached to the greater warp and woof.
The Volvo's not long for my world, it's on it's way out and I have to let it go. And so another section of my life falls aside. I have all these fading photographs of times spent, and I can't stop worrying that if I lose the object I attach them to I'll lose them altogether. What's the worry in that? I'm not sure. I think part of it is wanting to keep a truly holistic view of myself, to know that all the building blocks of who I am and who I've been are building up just fine, with no gaps or missing bits. If I lose the things, I think I'll lose the person I was. Which is absolutely ridiculous, but I have attachment issues.
I hate it. I hate it , I hate it, I hate it.
Look at me. Waxing poetic over the loss of a building. It's just me, though, pinning a tail of worth on something that maybe doesn't deserve it. My issues with material possessions, though, are dwarfed with the concept of losing people I care about. It pales in comparison, and I find it absolutely ridiculous that people can just let go, can just decide for one reason or another to clip the strings that tie one flesh and blood person to another. It's almost incomprehensible, sometimes, in a naive little way. I just don't fathom it well, can't stand watching some fully formed identity drift off into a sea of blank faces again.
I have these problems, these clingy clingy problems where I treat existence itself as a mnemonic device, utilizing physical objects to reassure me that yes, I exist, and yes, those things happened. I rely on people places and/or things to build life, letting the wear of familiar tread on carpet comfort me in the past, present, and future. Objects become symbols become feelings.
I have a box that I keep things in, an assortment of things that were perhaps everyday once upon a time, but have faded. If I open the lid and pull out something, the where and how I was then spreads outward from my hands, and I can rebuild momentarily the circumstances surrounding.
This is why I take things like loss hard. I grasp and clutch at the remnants of the past few years, but Life has decided to let them scatter and fade.
Tonight was one of those end of an era things. Sitting the bar I used to go to before I was 21, drinking lemonade and laughing so hard my face hurts. Watching a cast of characteres cycle in and cycle through, seeing some of them for the first time in months and knowing that it could be the last time I see them ever. The bookstore I worked in for three years is closing, and my psyche is shocked and dismayed at the possibility. It wants permanance, it wants to know that my name traced in dust back on the highest shelf in the warehouse is still there, waiting, if I choose to look for it. Walking inside from the rain, pushing through the glass double doors, you can see the bits and pieces slowly leaving and parts of the store growing dark. So much happened there, in between shelves and over the intercom and in the back room. All these people filtering in and out, all the friends I met and moved in with and kissed and got drunk with, shallow glimmering trails attached to the greater warp and woof.
The Volvo's not long for my world, it's on it's way out and I have to let it go. And so another section of my life falls aside. I have all these fading photographs of times spent, and I can't stop worrying that if I lose the object I attach them to I'll lose them altogether. What's the worry in that? I'm not sure. I think part of it is wanting to keep a truly holistic view of myself, to know that all the building blocks of who I am and who I've been are building up just fine, with no gaps or missing bits. If I lose the things, I think I'll lose the person I was. Which is absolutely ridiculous, but I have attachment issues.
I hate it. I hate it , I hate it, I hate it.
Look at me. Waxing poetic over the loss of a building. It's just me, though, pinning a tail of worth on something that maybe doesn't deserve it. My issues with material possessions, though, are dwarfed with the concept of losing people I care about. It pales in comparison, and I find it absolutely ridiculous that people can just let go, can just decide for one reason or another to clip the strings that tie one flesh and blood person to another. It's almost incomprehensible, sometimes, in a naive little way. I just don't fathom it well, can't stand watching some fully formed identity drift off into a sea of blank faces again.