A Moth Who Got Himself Too Close To the Light.
Endless energy lies in me for those types of exertions. I really wish I had something to say--I must write, though, for I have to listen to myself and hear the nothing that I have to say reverberate back at me in all its hollowness. A lack of solitude proves so stifling to the type of thought required for writing, that it seems I am in the process of losing something, with an insuperable feeling of being left behind. Like my life's worth either dwindles or stagnates while the one I want keeps progressing. Recently I overheard a woman state that "men don't become interesting until after they turn 30." My initial reaction sounded silently with words similar to these: "What?! Why? You bitter old bitch." But, as offensive things tend to do, her statement started to sound like the truth. Without my control, my nascent cortex started to recall the sage-like words of Adam Carolla paraphrased by me as, "men under 25 really have nothing to offer chicks: they have no money, they have little knowledge, and they have nothing of their own yet." Great. What to do in the time before the interesting qualities of a male's personality imbue my existence with their hues of brilliance? Glaring at that question it occurs to me that I have approached the next unanswerable query of my life, that of finding worth in myself; after moving away from the large scale search for meaning in the general category of life, I have moved towards a search for individual meaning, i.e. evaluating my personality to hopefully come to a somewhat more contented conclusion about me.
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Last year I felt the same thing: the tired ache of longing that tapers off as it reaches out to what I want. He seemed to unfalteringly waver in affection towards me. Days would pile up with a sense of accumulated worth only for me to then find a makeshift replacement of blundering, clumsy friendship. Those moments, moments of obvious chafing, always bring into question my worth, the quality of my person. What a terribly bleak and frightening thing to peer into. If I were another person I would really dislike myself--I understand the irritation he felt with me, I just don't understand the return back to the days of worth. Those moments remind me of two things: 1) Charlie after he goes on his month of solitary pot-smoking and confronts an old friend and ends up seeing how weird he really is and 2) the Mark Eitzel line, "I'm walking in circles, in a waiting room, for a welcome I don't feel in my soul." I have always done horribly bizarre things, things I will not list one by one but things all weird. The worst part about it is that I feel changing those things is possible but something I have not yet found the courage to do. I don't even have the courage to say what I want, to admit to myself my childish fears and anxieties. Shifting feelings represent what I really remain fixed on at this particular moment. After separating from him the return always brought us back to what we had before but the time of bringing things back always made up a strange interval. Feelings and thoughts, rehearsed somewhat on my part, remained unsaid, lived in the air around us like an obligatory family member, someone caustic and abrasive but because of history and other things, incapable of deliquescence. But who cares about the shift of emotions when you can see the future of your person as it relates to the future of another's? I hate seeing how I shall be most likely left behind, how no home, no place of comfort, will exist steadily for me for a long time. Nothing do I see except the coming days of my life so void of what I want--those that I love, those people of talent, of strength, of capability, of intelligence, of humanity, will all continue in their greatness while I struggle with the rudimentary aspects of survival, of developing the elementary power of facing the day, of putting effort into myself. It always comes as a surprise (although it probably shouldn't) how difficult it is to say the things so easily written down and how difficult it is to write the things so desired to be spoken.