As the day is long and the world is old, many people can stand in the same place, one after the other. (Marie in Woyzeck, by Georg Büchner)
I am a total sucker for poignant, wistful and melancholy words. Also, very good at taking myself too seriously or not seriously enough, in completely the wrong circumstances.
Here’s an illustrated guide to my navel tonight.
And I am, as I frequently am, sick to the gills of the inanity of distraction. I’m sick of distraction being necessary and I’m sick of my brain getting too fried to at least find some challenging distractions. I’m sick of hearing myself bitch whine moan gripe complain. I’m too lonely to shut up. I want people/I don’t want people. I’m tired of waking with a drenched head and a tshirt neck soaked in sickly sweet and medicated sweat. I’m tired of the way my teeth default to the clenched position. I can almost always write or talk my distracted way into some sort of defocused and ok state – and then it all slides off and hurts a little more than before.
I’m tired of not having anyone to act out at.
(I didn’t want to confess to that.)
I can’t even whine I want my muuuum ironically anymore. (Grow the fuck up, Blah.)
I’m tired. I shouldn’t be tired, but I am so very fucking tired.
I think I am mostly tired of myself. (Get over yourself.)
There are very good things in and about my life. Even more importantly, amazing people too. And my dog. Blablablaaahhh I’m not gonna write my spewtastic gratitude list here. I love it, but it doesn’t need airing right now. I feel so churlish, so ungrateful – I really am so very fortunate. I tell that to my depression daily and every day it gives me a look as though I just yanked its jaw open to pour castor oil down its gullet. Not this again, it moans, I don’t care, I’m in pain, I don’t care, just fuckingwell sedate me for a year. Wah wah wahhh. Frankly, a lot of the time I don’t care either, but I go through the motions like I’m in bipolar fucking bootcamp out of respect for the corners that still care.
I can vent it … go scream at the sea or a road … feel my throat hurt … feel stupid. Catharsis my arsis.
I’m just emptying my head again. I generate a lot of words and they’d fester if I didn’t.
The horror, the horror :/ the internet is far crazier than any of us will ever be.
My moods don’t yo yo the way muggles think that bipolar moods do, but sometimes, some days, my outlook vacillates between determination and despair far too frequently for comfort. I don’t like it. I think I handle at least a full day of one or the other better than one of those days. Sucker punched by your own attitudes … all that feckin effort to adjust them and adjust to them. Meeeeeeh!
I realised sometime within the last year or so, that all the losses I have mourned, all those I still mourn, all ganged up and then I lost every single fucking dream I had. I am more used to it now, but I can still remember *melodrama alert* the icy razor realisation of it, and just how much it hurt. Some hurts knock the air right out of your lungs.
Sometimes I think that my only saving grace is the fact that my funnybone’s connected to my sighbone.
Wait there’s one more … I can still love.
Where the flagellated fuck is my wishbone anyway? You lose dreams and watch hope pack its bags too. There’s nothing left to wish for and it doesn’t feel the way the Dalai Lama said it would.
LOL. So fecking mawkish.
It is cool like Kerouac, shrugging off the shackles and making friends with tumbleweed. And it’s amazing just how far you can go before you know you’re lonely, and you’ve worn right through your soul and the soles of your shoes. How long does a ripped and faded denim, beat up boots swagger last anyway? Here I am riffing on misery and mystery again.
If I took myself even more seriously, I’d chuck some jagged line breaks at that paragraph and call it a poem.
Alright, I’ve finished barfing on my blog now. I’m ready to go and sing to wildflowers and gambol with lambs and so forth. It’ll be epic.
They never include the next line in the wistful memes …
Chk chk boom, baby.