In The Dark, You Can't See
Maybe I'm into the wrong things. The sideways glances, the edges of sanity held together by psyche ductape, and the coping mechanisms surrounding these slips, trips, and almostfalls. I became interested at the most inopportune moment, to comedic, albeit still stupid, effect and seemingly undamaging to whatevernothingthisis. And, on its heels, there it was, almostrejection. I suppose it fits your mythos (or, more appropriately, my mythos of you). I was crushed, but not so much that when you contacted me again, I erased my doubts, decided to make irrelevant your reasons for ignoring me. Worst, they are true and I decide, sensibly, that they do not matter. Best, they were in fact not there at all.
So I agreed to the addendum, and here I am, again, substituting beer for food while you pursue career-shaping events. A parliament of confused thoughts and feelings grumble about in my brain. Ranging from Am I really that forgettable? to If we do end up together, how will you feel reading this? with much more along that gambit. Sensibly, I don't know what to think. I suppose, like tennis, it's her serve. I just don't know who's winning. Or if I'm even playing at all.
I can feel it sometimes, like a kidnap victim looking through floorboards out a window to the lazy summer day outside. Sometimes, the rays rest upon my face for a few moments and I think Yes, this is how it could be, I'm so close, it's just upstairs and out the front door. And it is getting better. Although, sadly, the parable follows well and you might as well say that I'm happier because life hasn't come down here to rape me recently. I'm still trapped, chained to everything that I have worked so hard to have, with migraines and misery shadowing my steps daily from the regular work and toil of it all. Some have tried to pigeonhole the experience into a simple play/work dichotomy but that's so pathetic and misguided I want to scream. I'm a workaholic, I like work. I don't like abuse. And that's what it all has been lately, abuse.
For a moment, I will count my blessings, and I will recount that my metaphors are just that, metaphors. No war tears my country and soul. No death, famine, or plague ruins me. No physical or sexual abuse robs me of my vision and heart. My family is wonderful and supportive through this, as well as my friends. Even if they aren't much intellectual help, they remain a bastion of strength and dependability. I'd like to think I'm the same to them. Sometimes.
Lesser men would break.
Maybe that's why I'm losing it.
Currently Listening: Andrew Kenny - Secrets of the Heart
Written On: Home Computer