She must have known a thing or two about abandonment, pain and loss. Suffering and instability. Heck. She did write To the Lighthouse and Mrs. Dalloway after all! My love and adoration for this woman is immense. A soul so troubled such as hers has often rendered me speechless and, dare i say, almost exulted.
This frightens me.
As i sit here, contemplating my pitiful, oh-so-microscopic, existence…as minutes turn into hours and those into days…as my spine grows more crooked…as i grow bloated from alcohol consumption, cranky from too many sleepless nights, incredibly dazed and sluggish from the complete annihilation of my darling brain cells…as i perpetually walk this self created pathetic path…as i carry the burden of this water bucket, chuck full of holes…i realize my once glorified perception of this pile of shit i call life has been but a beautiful lie.
A beautiful lie.
I guess there was a time in which i was truly, really, utterly happy.
I don’t remember it.
Though brave at heart, fear has been my constant companion. I know this now, though I’ve continuously defined myself as fearless, for my personal journey has concluded so. My compulsive obsession with life’s transience, my reality’s subjectiveness and my life’s meaning through art, has been thoroughly led and at times misled by my perpetual fear of shattering “stability.”
And then again…a beautiful lie.
I need stability. I crave it. It has, quite simply, become my fix. In the stage of my life I see myself as that character repeatedly searching for meaning and struggling for order out of mind chaos–chaos so deeply and unnecessarily tangled, that it renders itself moot. Powerless. Ultimately however, all ends, thus to yearn stability is purely absurd. Whether the persistence of my memory is paralyzed, for it cannot bear the idea of no longer cultivating precious moments, or out of fear that those heart wrenching turning points will ultimately detour me back to the entrance, i know…I KNOW! that no-thing is permanent.
I also KNOW! that when i attempt to make my personal mark through reasoning, philosophical and intellectual thought, i merely present myself as a fraud, really. Because no matter the experience or its profundity, each moment is but a fleeting one, proving entirely inadequate of holding the true essence. I claim to hold no fear toward that ongoing evolution we call change. Truth be told: i am scared to death, though i know everything is in a constant state of change.
Plagued by continuous self-doubt and an overly inflated ego i live each day… over and over and over. It’s all the same fucking day. I know this. And yet, i wait for tomorrow. And the day after. And the one after that. So that i can start over. So that i can die to old ugly ways of being. So that the old me is buried once and for all. I wait. For my resurrection. For stability. For meaning. For order.
I wait. Sometime patiently. Other times, not. I wait as i am held together by pills and buttons of many sorts.