I tied my own hands and stepped willingly into cement. I felt the breeze come off the water as I leaned in, feet grounded firmly to the platform. I was alone, but I felt the push. I was there. I did the pushing. And I watched myself plunge into the freezing water. I looked up and saw the amber light on the pier rise and fade into darkness. And everything went black. And I looked down and saw the figure fade into darkness as it sank.
This time of year is stressful, anticipatory, tearful, angry, happy, and sad for me. I’m sure I could squeeze more adjectives in there; almost anything would fit.
I got visits from my favorite people today. That helped.
One is a mineman. He got me through that 5k last year.
Another is avoiding an inevitable road into politics.
Me, I’m just waiting for the next gust of wind to carry me off.
I feel I have something important to say, but I can’t pull it into the light. I can’t see it, I just know it’s there.
I found a blog a long time ago that I go back and forth between following and unfollowng because I like it a whole lot and I’m turned off by it equally as much. I don’t like attention but I dislike being unnoticed, and I want to be wanted when I’m not around. This blog, as much as I like it, makes me feel small and insignificant. My commenting, hey, I appreciate what you are doing here, I fear would fall on deaf ears, lost in a menagerie of some 16,000 followers.
But everything is about me. You knew that, right?
I like to admire from silent corners. But the problem I have with blogs is that, whereas when reading books I have an intimate connection with the author (a personal show for an audience of one), I feel detached from some blog writers. I don’t always mind the detachment, but when I really like what I’m reading, I want the connection.
I’ve been picking up new books and slowly finishing others, but I think it’s a good time to go back to the one I love the most. I need to go sit with Kurt awhile. I’d visit Joyce, but he makes me emotional even when he doesn’t intend to. I’ve often said that Vonnegut is my best friend and Joyce is my lover, though both have pissed me off before. Mm, no, just Kurt. Joyce makes me cry. My relationships with these authors are codependent ones. Dysfunctional but satisfying.
I can’t get that with blog writers.
When I read Vonnegut, I feel like I’m sitting with him at a bar listening to his drunk stories. I feel him turning the pages for me. When I read Joyce, I feel I’m watching his pen glide across the page. He writes to me, for me, and only for me. But books are different than blog posts. Posts aren’t written for me.
Except when they are. But I know those writers.
I’ve convinced myself to leave here now and go pick up my beloved copy of Mother Night.
Tomorrow is Friday, by the way, and I have friends who are already seeing Friday peek over the horizon.
Zao shang hao, friends.
The world has stopped
here in my room with a fan whirling cool twilight air
that is quickly fading to cool dark air
leaving only me
and all this shadow and air
can you imagine anything nearly as peaceful
as a fan blowing cool night air in a room
where the world has stopped
I wrote something pretty great last night, and then the system decided not to save it. I’m tired of this space being an emotional dumping ground. Not to say my emotions won’t spill on the screen ever again, because they will. But I’m going to try to make this a more interesting space in case anyone reads any of it.
I used to write for myself, because writing is like breathing and breathing is important. But then I found myself writing for other people, and the process became forced. I still have my moments though.
Unless I tag anything, no one who follows me reads this site, so I have freedom to be as odd as I care to be. I also have the freedom to write like shit and not feel judged.
I’m stating all this because I’m riding in a car and I have the time and want.
I’m almost to work.
Good day, World.
The only log I’ve ever made of my moods is what I’ve written on these blogs and shared with the entire world. Exposed my soul, I have. Made myself vulnerable, I did.
I want to disappear. Evaporate.
I see other people and their problems, and I wish to slip into their shoes with their feet and fix them. I could clean up someone else’s act. Make them eat their veggies and lose 100 pounds and bring them from the brink of financial ruin. Get their lives together. Put them in a better place. But I have no desire to fix myself. I’m beyond broken, and I just assume toss out the pieces.
How pathetic I am.
The truth is I don’t have the energy to glue myself back together. I have lost the strength to pull myself out of this hole.
I am going to disappear for a while.
I could really use a cigarette.