...
I’m alive. In one capacity or another. And after only a year of absence...
I don’t know that this blog will continue to feature poetry. I don’t know that it will continue to feature anything beyond this post which simply serves as self-confirmation of life. But, it will feature this.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t even rightly know where I’m been. I’m here now, and that’s all that’s supposed to matter, but “here” and “now” are not really places I want to experience.
This most recent spiral likely began on what I thought was an act of maturity. An act of letting go. It might have indeed been just that. But other times I think I should have fought harder. Tried to understand - I thought I did, but maybe not enough. I should have been more patient, even if I was in need myself. I should have done something different. There are too many conditions to account for every possibility. But the fact that there are so many conditions just furthered the suspicion I always held: unconditional love is a myth. Hell, unconditional like is a myth. There are always conditions that determine our relations, and our actions. I guess I just thought I had more control than I did.
It’s difficult when your greatest safety net disappears from under you. It was strained. In fact, the net probably wasn’t even there - my support was a tight-rope. And every step I took to cross may have worn on it a bit too much. But, more than ever, I’m beginning to suspect even the tight-rope was illusory -- I’d been falling the whole time. But, when you think you have something meaningful, it can be devastating when its gone. And reflecting back, and realizing you never had it is all the more worse. This something... person. This person was the first thing I saw after a suicide attempt. I don’t think they ever knew that. But they came to me, warmly, cheerful though bashful, and took me back into the world. I was still recovering from the preceding events. I was still numb, mostly. But there was a warmth in their touch that helped me awaken. And again, after a brief hospitalization, they were there again. I don’t even recall any words, but I remember the company. Even a few short visits. But, soon after they disappeared. The sightings were rare, and became rarer still. Eventually the disappeared altogether, and I only heard a few echoes. And then they said, “Goodbye”. It wasn’t quite that gentle though. It was more akin to a dismissal. A lay off. Like I had done my job, and they no longer required my services, and so I was let go.
I sensed the rift before the final tear, so I wasn’t too surprised. I let them go. I wished them well. I didn’t ask for any last kindness, no further words. I respected that this was what they wanted, even though I wasn’t sure myself. At first when I looked back, I felt used. After all I’d done in service of them -- I felt entitled to some form of closure. My cheque never came in the mail. They owe me nothing. I owe them nothing. It hurt. Sometimes it still does. But, if they needed this, it was not my right to deny them. Even if I was lost.
The greatest trouble is, all those years, being that our first real meeting was after I returned from the border of death, all those years I’d spent with them, I spent for them. I had no real investment in my own existence, I was just satisfied to exist in the company of someone who cared that I did. I just wanted to be of service. Some thought my devotion was romantic. It’s pathetic, really. I fell in love with a symbol. And the symbol rejected me. Then I fell out, but still admired it. And then I was dedicated to some loyalty to this symbol, despite all the conflict that had arisen. So now, these years after the rift, just past a year after the final tearing, I don’t know what I’m doing.
I dedicate myself to my art, and when my art fails, to distraction. But none of it brings me happiness. Nor does it offer comfort. Just a slurry of negative emotion I’m forced to wade through until the hours I can finally lose awareness. I hate that I try and fail. I hate that I quit. I hate that I keep trying again.
I honestly don’t know where this was going. It seems like another nonsensical rant of little value and of even less interest. Probably another vain attempt at some form of catharsis that never comes. I’m tired of the pursuit. I don’t know what I want, or why I’m bothering to chase it. But I’m here to chase it. I’m here, and that’s supposed to be all that matters...
It’s just not satisfying.