November 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
(To the tune of Depeche Mode’s Violator)
In lieu of companionship: domestication. Finding comfort at home. Sanctuary is comforting, is there when you get home. Nothing you talk to there talks back, though–not intelligibly. TV is not a conversation. Neither is a cat. Chocolate’s not sex (depending on the brand and the cacao content). But we make do. The job doesn’t come through: Come home and eat whatever the hell you feel like, catch The Simpsons instead of the news, try to laugh till bedtime, and hope to fall asleep before getting horny and/or lonely–unconscious before you remember what’s missing: A lifestyle that’s almost a life.
November 16, 2012 § Leave a comment
It’s easy enough living alone, but I’m not after convenience. It’s easy to do nothing about it, to insulate my hermitage with books and movies and music, to seal in the desperation that erodes my patience. Eventually, I will love myself, but I don’t know if I can wait that long for someone to love me. (Who else is saying that? I’m not the first.) Or am I waiting on my own ability to love someone else? waiting is waiting. It’s still inaction. What action’s to be taken? Desperation motivates but offers tricks for ideas. I don’t do tricks. There’s nothing to be gained fooling someone; I’m the guinea pig I proved that on. Between patience and desperation is the life I live. It’s not the happiest of media, but it’s easy, and it’s almost comfortable.
October 26, 2012 § Leave a comment
There is comfort in not caring about what I can do nothing to change, affect or effect, as long as I’m not just giving up. Bitterness is the shell of giving up, the indifference, purgatory; acceptance the truth, if not exactly the heaven. Foreground and background transpose: Importance rack-focuses. The shift is motivated by both fear and weariness: I fear what people think of me for belaboring my emotions over a relationship that never was; and I am weary of caring about it. So though I do, still, think of Herself, I let no one know. Keeping it to myself will make it unreal even to me one day. The woman I wanted her to be will be a woman unto herself, a fictional character I can understand. But as complete as she may become, she will only be so as a construct of my imagination; however nuanced her psychology or complex her emotions, she is yet not three-dimensional and never can be. She can’t be touched.
October 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
Permission to be happy struggles against a habit of bitterness and blame; acceptance against judgment. Who we ware against who we are. The struggle is in the choosing. Or in allowing there to be no choice. Giving in. Having faith, even that there is something to have faith in. Or losing the faith we have. Do we need a faith? or faith? What can we afford to take for granted? What will come to our rescue? Irony and cynicism slobber under the tightrope, but let ’em go hungry while other passions consume us in a more comforting fire.
October 5, 2012 § Leave a comment
Getting to know love and appreciate oneself requires aloneness. Aloneness is easy. One’s toleration of it is gauge of one’s comfort with oneself. Some of us possess this comfort jealously, to the exclusion of others. Others may learn, in their solitude, to hate themselves the more, and consider it a favor bestowed upon the world to not project themselves upon it. That is a recluse. That is not me. What I am I want others to know. I can only share that about myself with which I have come to terms–that I accept in its imperfectness without judgement. I am alone, and I might be alone for some time yet–I am still judging myself and finding myself wanting–but I am not hiding.
July 28, 2012 § Leave a comment
Comfort is escape, but from what? At what point is it a denial of responsibility? What is the responsibility? It weighs heavily but has a big thumb on the scale. Comfort does not signify contentment of a real kind, but a buffer from the pain of coping with without. I look for comfort in myriad things, but in none do I truly find it, for futility ever leads the pursuit. The horse is dead in the gate. Contentment is not an accumulation of comforts. No number of good books I read, good movies I see, or amount of music I enjoy totals what I am after. In fact, I sometimes think that their absence will reveal the peace I seek, but I fear the void. It’s a theory I can’t bring myself to test. Better the comforts I know….