Anything At All

I feel like a loser, I feel like I’ve lost, I feel like I’m not so sure if I feel anything at all… But believe me, I’m not helpless I just need someone to love. So my situation’s rough, but that just makes me a dumb human like you

I feel like a shortstop along third base. I may just help you but I still don’t like your face, but believe me, I’m not hostile I just want to hear you laugh when I’m sarcastic like that, but that just makes me a dumb human
Like you…

Why do I have this incredible need to stand up and say “Please, pay attention?”. It’s the last thing that I need

To make myself seen, well, that ain’t my intention – No. I feel like an artist, Who’s lost his touch. He likes himself in his art, but not his art too much

Everyone wants to be such an individual. So unique. Snowflakes like our parents told us as they lied through their teeth. We’re all the same on the inside, fragile and frail. Everyone is struggling through something at every moment, even when it is something small. Why do we hide it so much? Why are we so bent on living a way that is so ego-dystonic compared to our inner self?

Who knows. Treat your ears:

_______

But ultimately, anyone’s rise to a life of integrity and merit can only come as a result of a full self-awakening. A person must come to know himself as well as others without deceit or denial. He must honestly face and reckon with all aspects of his character. Only then can he freely take on the burden of disciplining himself for the sake of himself as well as the sake of others. It is the free choice to take up this burden or ‘cross’ that defines love. And it is the willingness and commitment of a person to carry this cross even to death that opens the door to a higher plane of existence.” ~ Dr. George Simon

Sem título

I think I just realized that I am in mourning over a life that never existed. A happiness that I dreamed about and one that will never be real. So here’s to that life…

I don’t want to get over you.I guess I could take
a sleeping pill and sleep at will and not have to
go through what I go through. I guess I should take
Prozac, right, and just smile all night at somebody new,
Somebody not too bright but sweet and kind who would
try to get you off my mind. I could leave this agony behind
which is just what I’d do if I wanted to, but I don’t
want to get over you cause I don’t want to get over love.
I could listen to my therapist, pretend you don’t exist
and not have to dream of what I dream of; I could listen
to all my friends and go out again and pretend it’s enough,
or I could make a career of being blue–I could dress
in black and read Camus, smoke clove cigarettes and drink
vermouth like I was 17 that would be a scream but I
don’t want to get over you.


Searching…

I have been having trouble sleeping. In an effort at full disclosure, I have been having trouble doing a lot of things. Sleeping, waking, working, playing. All of these things have been less autonomic and more so resembling labor. One thing that I am not having trouble doing is emoting. It is a weird juxtaposition as I feel like I am numb but at the same time screaming to experience a true reaction, a genuine response. It is odd that I find myself so visceral these days. I could jump to the conclusion that loneliness has taken it’s toll but that would probably be preemptive and likely dismissive.
There was an analogy I encountered recently that seems quite accurate. The metaphor is speaking about kites and how you must hold onto the cord to keep the kite in the air. It mentioned that the thing about kites is you have to hold on tight so they can fight against the wind. Because the second you let go, all the life goes out of them. I feel like that is me right now. I want to be up there in the wind but all of this fighting and holding on tight to something that is so entirely not there is extinguishing my passion for life. Why is connecting so hard? How come the things I connect to seem to be music or books or a dead writer? Can no one relate to me?
The only thing that keeps me going are the few people in my life and the animals who depend on me. That is sad for someone my age. I am sad for someone my age. Where are my good times?
I cannot help but think that all of the things causing me anxiety or sadness are merely shadows. Regardless, certainly there are days that feel like months in terms of grievances. Why is it that the night soothes me more than the day and that silence comforts me more than the noise of the streets or peoples voices. With all of these questions I cannot help but ask one more: what is wrong with me?
Now this is connecting. Thank you Ben Gibbard. Listen Closely.

I feel strangely incomplete and most certainly grieving for days that feel more like months than weeks.
_______

“Many of life’s failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up.” — Thomas Edison
When is too early to give up and how do I know? All the wisdom in the world is useless without the proper path to my feet.

la lluvia y el té

It is a dimly lit morning here in Virginia and everything is permeated with a muting haze. The noises outside seem quieter, the sun is hardly noticeable as it feels more like dusk than nine am. It is peaceful. I feel peaceful. Even as I look at the clock and realize that I must be somewhere in twenty minutes, I am soberly serene. This is the feeling I would like to remember.
I look back upon my weekend – so hectic.

 

 

Wake up, make coffee, walk dogs, wash face, get dressed ^what will I wear^, feed dogs, check dogs water, UP, keys, ^what time is it?^, pour coffee, find shoes, leave the house, drive to work. work, volleyball, physics, lab, dogs, horses, travel…

The internal dialogue within fifteen minutes is enough to drive a person insane, let alone a day or weeks worth. No thank you. I would take this moment of serenity over that mind racing chaos any day.
Alas, however, I must to begin my day.

*please hold while I head to my next obligation*

I scurried to my next thing to do, battling the rain which now seemed like a hassle and not a blessing of serenity. Now I am back to my dimly lit (and appropriately so) office. The drops of the rain tapping on my air conditioner that perches in the window. This sound is oddly comforting yet blends into the sounds of the trucks buzzing by and the army chants that sing in the afternoons. For a space that seems so serene it sure makes working difficult.

Now everyone is out of the office except for me. Ah – silence finally. The Binds That Tie by  Bright Eyes plays on my speakers with the bass line nicely mimicking the rain’s drop drop-drop drop drop-drop. It is Friday. I am tired. My mind has flat lined. I need a warm blanket, a mug of hot tea (a man to cuddle if we’re being completely honest), and a good classic move or my friend Sylvia’s musings (I am going to miss her when I have finished all of her writings).

_______

I should’ve told him that you were the one for me but I lied, but I lied…Carolina Rain, RA

 

Everything dies

I spent the last hour or two immersing myself, like a cotton rope dipped in oil, in music. In the oil that lights the embers in my soul… and I am close to a small glow now. It takes a lot to light my fire now that I am so lost. Music has a funny way of filling me up, or helping me relate. It helps me feel like I can connect. The same way I connect with Sylvia Plath when I read her thoughts and musings, I relate to the songwriter when he writes:

For every beach there’s always a tide
The tide goes in and goes out
And every day comes with its own ending
A message in a shooting star
And everything’s calm, everything’s bright
Everything’s beautiful outside
Is it just me, or is it so cruel how everything dies?

Meet me in the valley
I followed the ones before I was born in Echo canyon
Raised on a storm
And fire and wind come and lives get torn apart

For every day there’s always night, and repetition
For every beach there’s always a tide
And everything’s calm, everything’s bright
Everything’s beautiful outside
Is it just me or is it so cruel how everything dies?
Is it just me or is it so cruel how everything dies?

_______

Is it just me, or is it so cruel how everything dies?  – RA

Spit and Sparkle, You and Me

As if he read my mind, Ryan Adams has come back to help my soul repair itself. His music a salve to my bleeding soul. He heals me through his words, smooth vocals, and gentle whispering lyrics. The song “lucky now” perfectly expresses where I am in my life… and if you’ve been reading my blogs or catching up with me then you know what I mean. My contemplation of who I am is worded better than I could have:

“I don’t remember, were we wild and young
All that faded into memory
I feel like somebody I don’t know
Are we really who we used to be
Am I really who I was

The lights will draw you in
And the dark will bring you down
And the night will break your heart
But only if you’re lucky now”

As we grow older we grow wiser. Nah, that can’t be right. I feel like I am losing myself as I grow older. Actually, it’s quite a mystery. I feel I know who I am more at the core but at the same time I have lost the joie de vivre. The phrase Am I really who I was repeats itself in my head no matter the activity.
I am starting to think there would be something tragic and magical if RA and I ever met in person. Sparks and house fires probably. We would spit and sparkle and burn out in quite the blaze.

_______


_______

Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear;
The wheels revolve, the universe keeps running. – Sylvia, my kindred spirit.

I’m ready now…

This is what my soul is doing right now. It is lilting and swaying in harmony as it questions existance and who I am compared to who I wanted to be… and ironically God is just answering in silent reverie when my soul just needs a loud LOUD voice.

Now I’m old and feeling grey. I don’t know what else is left to say about this life I’m willing to leave. I lived it full? I lived it well? I’m ready now… I’m ready now… I’m ready now… *I had a dream*

_______

_______

The city hung in my window, flat like a poster, glittering and blinking, but it might just as well not have been there at all, for the good it did me. – Sylvia.