I write to capture the shape of my mind, to see reflecting at me the folds, valleys, and ridges in words. Selected excerpts:
Here I am, in the waning days of our residence. She is in bed and a fly taps away at the ceiling. How can it have come to this? The hopes and wants, a year and a half, just gone, spent wanting and wishing for better. Did I really hate the time I spent with her? I don't think so. I learned something, I think. I learned that I can be lazy and un-accomplishing. Just like the rest of 'em. The rest of society and the people that I co-habit this world with. I sound judgmental, oppressive and complain-y. I am frustrated with where things are right now.
Well I don't think that I have a whole lot to say here other than... it's been a long road to recovery. Getting away from her right now feels like the right thing, but it's such a waffle-y feeling and difficult in so many ways to evaluate objectively. Maybe that's the first hurdle, is that it's not really something that is just going to be clouded in emotion and not really assessed in the cynical manner that I love to employ all the time.
About this run tonight. I ran out on the boardwalk by Castle Island. I took pause to watch the planes come in through the low ceiling of clouds; to hear the deep rumbling bass notes of the metal birds, then see an aura of light rapidly fading in. A quad burst of floodlights and then the beast is overhead, passengers unaware of the fury echoing off the terra and brine below. As the planes passed overhead, entrails of cloud guts spilled off their wings, giving the feeling of dark mysteries and ethereal forces. A good run.
I think that within the span of a few days, I've transformed into a frenetic human being that is desperately trying to better himself, figure out his own identity, and deal with it in a way that doesn't cause him to go insane. I know that there is an anxiety that lies within me when I have time and am by myself, that itches and wants to claw its way to the surface, somewhere just below my sternum and above my lungs, something that aches for distraction or realness or verification or just to be looked at, acknowledged. I guess that's my nature.
I think what I do have to realize is that this personality flaw will always be me. That I can't make it better, go away and numb it down with watered down life. I need to be able to experience full-bore and can't go about in a half-awake dream state of denying what is real and what is false. I need to be more honest, more open, not only with other human beings but mostly with myself.
It feels like I've aged. Aged, a raisin in the ground, planted six feet deep beneath the trampling thick heels that clack-clack down the pavement sidewalks of South Boston. Tight white and black dresses wrap forms of loud bodies thronging outside of boisterous benches that hold vessels of amber liquids, the dirty downtrodden laying in the street, grasping, suckling at amber bottles. The age that comes of time blurring together, racing forwards and onwards in a way that seems so cyclical, night blending into day blending into night blending into commutes, meals cooked, dreams dashed, chores undone, and unsatisfactory performance.
Boston, MA; USA