In which I slough
A mental debridement, of sorts.
It's supposed to rain in the spring, I know that much. All the moisture makes for pretty new flowers and grass and trees and baby animals and bright and sunny summer is just around the corner where the sky is a lovely shade of azure.
And yet. The sky has been weeping for days now, weeks it seems, and the mud and gunk and grey skies have merged so that they feel more a part of me than my surroundings.
I find optimism and hope to be a rare commodity of late. I suppose that is, at the very basic level, a defense mechanism to protect oneself from disappointment. While an outsider would likely consider me to be bitter, those who know me - I hope - would know that I just find it difficult to trust in the goodness anymore. Somewhere along the line, I managed to turn my leeriness into wariness, to the point that I overlook the pleasant moments of life. The joy has diminished.
Yen in a box. I hate that white box. I never entertained the notion that I would see another. To say I wish I hadn't sounds crass, but let's confront the monster for what it is, and know that, in some small way, we small troop of killers faced it together in support of the attempt of closure. To bawl out my own insecurities and shame when another is hurting much more than I is torture and release in conflict.
She was cautious when she told me of her news; I believe I pointedly asked her to fess up. Of course I was happy, in my own prudent manner, and oddly hopeful. There seemed to me to be many more recurrent loss stories than happy endings, and I wished for her to beat the odds. She did not. Of course. I mean, who said any of us deserve a fair shake in life? Whatever force drives the universe is a fickle ass without compassion or any sense of reasoning.
I encouraged her to lay low, sit on it a while, don't get her hopes up, essentially. In my mind, that was to protect her. I did not intend for her to bottle up her emotions, for this was an occasion to be shared, the complete journey, to release her frustrations in whatever medium was available. And it was good. She told me that, if things went poorly, she'd need the ability to purge her mind openly. She was correct, as usual. To play ostrich is a tactic that even I find nearly impossible. Looking back, I wish that I had faced it all with more hope than hazard.
So, I go through my days with a sense of avoidance. Regardless of where my thoughts may take me, my actions are usually carefully planned and executed, allowing me to wield my power of control in a delusional direction. Ignorance. Either I'm ignoring the plot to this story, or I'm just plain stupid. I waste valuable time and money in pursuit of prolificacy hoping that maybe, just this one time, I will reap what I sow. And, if hindsight is any indication, I shall.
I ache. From my head, to my heart, to my swollen ovaries, I am in pain. Conflict. Disgust. Anger. Desire. Excessive hormones aside, I'm just not in a good place right now. This cycle had been planned out for a while, and things seemed to be going as planned. Everything looked perfect. Had I waited the suggested number of hours for our romantic tryst, I would have been shit out of luck. The hubster was called away at the most inopportune of times, creating a critical imbalance to my supply and demand schematic. Perhaps that is the way it was meant to be. It wasn't meant to be. Shall I sit here for a certain number of days, two weeks, attempting to hatch hope? Great expectations; Lowered expectations; Fuck it.
My parents live by a pond that many a fowl calls home. On one occasion, a pair of ducks chose to make their nest in dad's flower garden. This patch of irises and tiger lilies happens to be adjacent to their driveway; each evening my father had to slink carefully to the front door to avoid being chased by the irate parents-to-be. Somewhere along the line, the daddy duck became rather dictatorial to the mommy duck, and would not let her leave the nest. He would peck at her and curse loudly to the point where she appeared to be trembling in fear. I'm unsure if he let her leave to find food, or if he was kind enough to provide a take-home meal. What I do know, is at one point, she had had enough. She got up from the nest, turned around, pecked open her eggs, and left. We saw a skinny stray cat enjoying the fruits of her labor.
Is that what it all boils down to? Is that part of this great "plan"? Like a food chain in the wild, are we really just pawns in some ethereal game of chess? I don't want to play a game without rules.
It's supposed to rain in the spring, I know that much. All the moisture makes for pretty new flowers and grass and trees and baby animals and bright and sunny summer is just around the corner where the sky is a lovely shade of azure.
And yet. The sky has been weeping for days now, weeks it seems, and the mud and gunk and grey skies have merged so that they feel more a part of me than my surroundings.
I find optimism and hope to be a rare commodity of late. I suppose that is, at the very basic level, a defense mechanism to protect oneself from disappointment. While an outsider would likely consider me to be bitter, those who know me - I hope - would know that I just find it difficult to trust in the goodness anymore. Somewhere along the line, I managed to turn my leeriness into wariness, to the point that I overlook the pleasant moments of life. The joy has diminished.
Yen in a box. I hate that white box. I never entertained the notion that I would see another. To say I wish I hadn't sounds crass, but let's confront the monster for what it is, and know that, in some small way, we small troop of killers faced it together in support of the attempt of closure. To bawl out my own insecurities and shame when another is hurting much more than I is torture and release in conflict.
She was cautious when she told me of her news; I believe I pointedly asked her to fess up. Of course I was happy, in my own prudent manner, and oddly hopeful. There seemed to me to be many more recurrent loss stories than happy endings, and I wished for her to beat the odds. She did not. Of course. I mean, who said any of us deserve a fair shake in life? Whatever force drives the universe is a fickle ass without compassion or any sense of reasoning.
I encouraged her to lay low, sit on it a while, don't get her hopes up, essentially. In my mind, that was to protect her. I did not intend for her to bottle up her emotions, for this was an occasion to be shared, the complete journey, to release her frustrations in whatever medium was available. And it was good. She told me that, if things went poorly, she'd need the ability to purge her mind openly. She was correct, as usual. To play ostrich is a tactic that even I find nearly impossible. Looking back, I wish that I had faced it all with more hope than hazard.
So, I go through my days with a sense of avoidance. Regardless of where my thoughts may take me, my actions are usually carefully planned and executed, allowing me to wield my power of control in a delusional direction. Ignorance. Either I'm ignoring the plot to this story, or I'm just plain stupid. I waste valuable time and money in pursuit of prolificacy hoping that maybe, just this one time, I will reap what I sow. And, if hindsight is any indication, I shall.
I ache. From my head, to my heart, to my swollen ovaries, I am in pain. Conflict. Disgust. Anger. Desire. Excessive hormones aside, I'm just not in a good place right now. This cycle had been planned out for a while, and things seemed to be going as planned. Everything looked perfect. Had I waited the suggested number of hours for our romantic tryst, I would have been shit out of luck. The hubster was called away at the most inopportune of times, creating a critical imbalance to my supply and demand schematic. Perhaps that is the way it was meant to be. It wasn't meant to be. Shall I sit here for a certain number of days, two weeks, attempting to hatch hope? Great expectations; Lowered expectations; Fuck it.
My parents live by a pond that many a fowl calls home. On one occasion, a pair of ducks chose to make their nest in dad's flower garden. This patch of irises and tiger lilies happens to be adjacent to their driveway; each evening my father had to slink carefully to the front door to avoid being chased by the irate parents-to-be. Somewhere along the line, the daddy duck became rather dictatorial to the mommy duck, and would not let her leave the nest. He would peck at her and curse loudly to the point where she appeared to be trembling in fear. I'm unsure if he let her leave to find food, or if he was kind enough to provide a take-home meal. What I do know, is at one point, she had had enough. She got up from the nest, turned around, pecked open her eggs, and left. We saw a skinny stray cat enjoying the fruits of her labor.
Is that what it all boils down to? Is that part of this great "plan"? Like a food chain in the wild, are we really just pawns in some ethereal game of chess? I don't want to play a game without rules.
posted by Julie at 4:39 AM
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