November 2, 2012 § Leave a comment
The subtlety of need is such that I can hardly be bothered to discern it. I despise compromise. Integrity is all there is. It’s a treasure buried under a mountain of conformity, an accretion of a lifetime of compromise. Being who I’m not has not gotten me any closer to what I need. I don’t care what the world wants of me. It doesn’t know me or care about me. That is true, and that’s all. Only the individual can care, and it can only care about itself and other individuals. It’s the only way for the world to be understood, the only way to unearth the treasure, expose the light of our selves. To find it is to share it; to share it is to satisfy our need. To understand, to love.
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 12, 2012 § Leave a comment
There is more past behind me than future ahead of me. The end is nearer than the beginning. I see it more clearly. The past is full of innumerable presents I never had time to understand. The future promises that understanding, but the wisdom awarded smacks of consolation: What do I do with it? The future will be spent stoically mopping milk, dusting the thick-grown regret from the surfaces of a half-lived life at least three-quarters done. Wondering if living alone is worse than dying alone. Peeling away identities curling at the edges. Appreciation of, after resignation to, what’s left after the cleanup, gradually acclimating to the stark gleam of the end of tunnel.
May 4, 2012 § Leave a comment
Closer to the truth is that I’m not trying to get over Herself at all. I’m trying to savor the experience, distill it into a good thing. I’m trying to appreciate the meaning of her to me. I don’t like not feeling something when I think about her, so I conjure up a little tension. That’s what I miss. Which came first? the tension or the inspiration? Too close to call. Of the many moments and encounters with her, the fond ones are the far fewer than the tense ones. Sometimes they were the same. But I had only a few months to compile those before I drove the train off the track with, “You fascinate me.” I have spent much more time with the tension since then. Reminiscing on the fond moments–when the playfulness dancing in her eyes was an invitation to my grandest hopes–warms and softens my bitterness, but the proximity and quantity of the tension chills and hardens again. And here I am now, with a weary, uneasy truce, trying to reconcile and understand, trying to keep both the good and bad at bay, to keep passion’s colors from tinting the black-and-white of my comprehension. Then it all comes out the color of her hair.
March 30, 2012 § Leave a comment
My interpreter’s hat has a tendency to fall over an eye or two. Bias is nothing to be ashamed of or conquer. But I want this done by the end of the year, and I don’t have the patience for all the prideful rationale the delusions float on. I have plenty of room for the truth, but the truth doesn’t always have dibs on the space. My truths are shy and non-assertive, as naked as the emperor but fully aware of it. Maybe they don’t mind that much, but I do. They are not embarrassed but embarrassing. Objectivity is still hard to find, but it has never been more visible. The capture is the thing: I know when I’ve caught my prey, but I don’t know how. Consistency is not also ensnared. I catch truths I don’t understand and let them go for now. The rest is meager nourishment, but enough till the next meal. The rules imposed on me over Herself are not metaphorical. They’re real and sometimes hard to take. Accepting them is the only thing I ask of myself. I succeed, I fail. Neither praising nor lamenting either outcome is objectivity, where understanding begins.