It’s an evil place playing a dirty trick. Everywhere are teases of happiness and absolved despair with a price just out of reach. It allows you the knowledge that you’ll fall over a cliff if you lean just slightly more forward to grasp the carrot of a day. Nowhere is the actual capability to bring the carrot closer. Everyone is fooled. They tout ideas and strategies for bringing the carrot closer as they themselves remain carrot-less as well. The only way to ever get close to the carrot is to sell your soul to the evilness. To work for the madman to keep the distractions flowing so no one wakes up from the illusion. Those who have woken up are pitied for everything they’ve lost. In this place, no one can keep their worldly possessions without paying a price to the madman. Only two choices exist: pay with all your possessions and live in exile as an unfortunate, or pay with your heart and soul working your life behind meaninglessness barriers.
I cry for her before she’s gone, My puppy.
She’s not a puppy anymore. I won’t have her forever.
Is she my favorite of the dogs of my lifetime? Perhaps yes perhaps no.
I will never say, who could ever compare, they are all my favorites.
I love them all so so deeply.
Just one for a lifetime, that’s all I need, but I am blessed with many.
Only a very few so far.
I can do the math.
One day my puppy will be gone.
I will have a new puppy, of any age, that I will also fall in love with.
I will keep her also until her dying day.
I bare this burn of mourning, perhaps too young.
It is easy with humans, they often bring death upon themselves.
Through old age or stupidity or mismanagement of the body.
But puppies, oh if I could have them all back.
I’d keep them forever.
They don’t know any better and they are so loveable.
I cry for her in advance, not because I expect she’ll be gone soon, but because I miss all the rest of my little sisters.
Such sweetness and fun lost yet more born to find.
One day I fell. Hard. I couldn’t get back up because as I laid there in complete and total confusion and despair, I had no way of knowing which way was up. The world hadn’t spun, it simply twisted behind its facade. On the surface all was as it always had been: people went to work and the store, they played outside with their pets and children, they ate laughed, drank, cried, and loved. But as I finally stood, slowly so as to hide my wobbling knees, looking around attenuating myself to this new existence, it became clear that the shock waves had damaged the foundation of things. All around was the sound of familiar voices hitting notes I had never heard before, people moving in much more ways to ponder, and most of all eyes lingering on me more puzzled than ever.
I don’t think I want to get married. It is odd how difficult it is to admit. All paths on the map to get there are dead ends. Thinking about it hits my nervous system and almost makes me want to cry. But I don’t cry, maybe a slight sob will come out. I’m mourning the loss of my dreams. At one time I had thought that’s what I wanted.
The next thoughts is, “What am I going to do instead?” I think that’s where the lost cry comes from because I don’t know. I guess I will just work, save money, travel, enjoy my freedom, continue to dabble in experience with men if I met one who is interesting enough. That’s all. It can be summed up that quickly. Mourning the loss of my dreams because I have out grown them. I always had difficulty accepting that I have to grow up. I’m never fully ready for it, usually I’m way past the point when I realize what about me needs to be changed.
I still have some hope that the world with change and I will be able to see things differently, but as far as I can tell, the situation is out of my control. The guys I like don’t like me, I don’t like the guys who like me, I’m broke, so are they… I don’t enjoy feeling obligated to socialize with people, it exhausts me. I am happy the way I am with my day to day happenings. I see dating as a form of prostitution and marriage as a prison where I am damned to be the bitch he cheats on and a surrogate mother he has to ask for permission to stay out late.
In my latest lull, I flashed through my book of stars at light speed, taking note of how neatly organized the constellations finally looked as I blew by. Along the way, I danced a few steps along the edges of the brightest shapes and I couldn’t help but to try in vain, just once more, to grasp the bulbs that have been burning bright for perhaps too long. All that I loved but sadly lost and hated but was forced to find still radiate despite my efforts to smolder them with crushing fingers over my palms. Panic is my only savior. With panic at my side I am at once reminded not to linger too long in memory’s gaze, not to soak up all that I can neither touch again nor fix. With Panic I become bold and brave enough to turn away from Passion’s siren call. But Panic is fleeting, he is only there to pull me away, back into the safety of the orderly world. And there I always end up, stranded in the emptiness of his departure, half happy to have gotten out with my emotions intact, half tempted to go back and somehow recreate all those moments of the past where I really felt alive.
I once had a close friend whose method of disconnecting from things, eras in life, and people was much different than my own. He would put a lot of time and energy into building something awesome, then enjoy the fruits of his labor for years, only to one day kick it to the curb calling it a worthless piece of junk.
Nothing he called “junk” was junk at all. He simply couldn’t see how to bring the object, habit, or person into his next phase of life with him. Since he couldn’t form a plan to mix the old with the new, he automatically thought that the old must be gotten rid of. Labeling it as worthless was the only way he knew how to depart from it.
The gap in his reasoning evolved from his belief that by that point in his life he should know how to handle life. To save face from not knowing that more options for dealing with the situation existed, his ego assumed that his default method of departure was the only way to handle it.
Respectfully departing would involve feelings of loss, disappointment, evaluations of love, and many other emotions that, in order to save face, he had a strong urge to hide. These, more positive, goodbye emotions were replaced with disrespect. In justification for his actions, he pushed aside the good aspects to focus on the few things he felt resentful for. Since objects and people are never perfect, flaws pointed out can hold a lot of weight, especially when other people feel as if the flaws are the result of some sort of personal failure.
If something is junk, well then obviously someone wouldn’t think twice about getting rid of it. But a pattern of calling once-cherished things junk just to avoid facing the loss…is, well, sad. But people do what they do and it picking up the pieces gives them more things to do.
“If the reader reflects a little upon the meaning of the entity he calls his life, he will find that it is the attempt to carry out a definite program or project of existence. … We are dealing – and let the disquieting strangeness of the case be well noted – with an entity whose being consists not in what it is already, but in what it is not yet, a being that consists in not-yet-being. Everything else in the world is what it is. An entity whose mode of being consists in what it is already, whose potentiality coincides at once with his reality, we call a ‘thing.’ Things are given their being ready-made.” – Ortega
I’m not sure if any one ever told me this before, perhaps I wasn’t listening if they did, but I’ve figured out that it is best not to make dreams that revolve around specific people or events that are outside of my personal control. I say this because I am tired of watching things die. Friendships, dogs, grandparents, memory foam pillows, etc. If things lasted forever then yes, putting them in my dreams would be justified, but I’ve learned over the past two years that it is not safe to do that.
Yes, being completely abandoned, let down, relieved, disappointed, elated, etc are all signs that I am indeed living an eventful life, full of adventurous obstacles to overcome and push my limits through, but a by-product of that is having to constantly push myself further to trust and learn when to rely on new people as well as believe what they are telling me is true. Anyways, I now focus my future plans (as best I can) on elements that are more within my control, and it is great because when influences of others come into play it is a pleasant surprise as opposed to a “oh, I was hoping you would have been like this instead.”
I guess with happiness, tragedy must be in there somewhere. Fortunately I had the luck of being spared compounded tragedies in life until adulthood, but perhaps that has weakened me; Not having to go through death happening so close to home, especially not this sudden, really gave me a false idea of what life was. I could ask myself a million times, why? why? why? why now? why so soon?
Can’t I have a few more years, just a few, to enjoy this more…. to not have to feel like pieces are fading and gap are going to have to be filled with yet more pieces that will fade? I just want something to hold on to, to hold me up and catch me when I fall, to be there for and build upon, but life doesn’t work that way; it throws the whole range of itself at me at some point, and lately, when I least expect it. Try as I might to hide from life’s sirens, they find me, grab hold of my heart and clench it. If there was no love, we would never know the extent of how horrid this underlying sadness can be and would also be desensitized to its misery. So perhaps love is to blame…