I’ve been struggling for days to come up with a post for you all that will yield some benefit, or help you in your philosophical endeavors, but as of late I am completely without inspiration. Frankly, my heart and mind aren’t in it. I’ve been far too distracted by certain memories and photographs, and have been trying to deal with the catatonic fits of despair that those memories and photographs have caused me. But it’s not as though everything is going terribly, or even comparatively bad; in fact I consider myself pretty lucky all things considered. I still have a beautiful home, lots of nice shit, a job that I love, and enough free time to worry about things to post on my blog. But these are all material pleasures, or at least transitory ones. After talking to my younger sister tonight, I feel like my problems are minute, small, insignificant. Truth be told, they are.
I wake up everyday the exact same way. I hear my alarm go off, I snooze it at least once, I remember times in various hotel rooms where sleep was an enemy of mine, and only in that terrible and sad realization that that time in my life is gone do I rise from my solitary (or sometimes shared) bed. Sleep was an enemy because it meant that I was not taking in every glorious moment of life, and the person that made it all so grand. She was the very essence of sunlight. Life, like the sky outside, is gray again. The light and the warmth has left me. I miss it so.
Everyday I fathom that I’m going to sit down and write a letter; a letter that will finally be able to extinguish the suspicion, the doubt, and the questions about my sincerity and devotion. I tell myself that that will be the day that I find the right words to communicate an pure and passionate emotion to the person for whom it is felt, but then I remember that Ovid wrote tens of thousands of lines trying to do the very same thing, and the object of his affection still rejected him. What hope do I have of trying to touch someone with such great words, or to evoke such swelling emotion, if my mind is still so malnourished?
At this point I don’t even know what it is I’m writing with. I go back-and-forth between conceptions that it is my mind that is the agent of my work, and then reject that assumption in favor of the notion that it is my heart that creates. At some point the shit-head pragmatist inside of me reminds me that it’s my hand, sequentially stroking little squares situated upon some larger square, and so on, blah blah blah. God damn it, I’m even a dick to myself. No wonder She bailed.
I keep thinking that if I just understood what went wrong that I could let go. Maybe then I’d have some thing or event to pin the blame on, instead of just guessing that it’s everything about me that is worthless, and despicable, and wholly unworthy of happiness and love. The philosopher in me tells me that I need knowledge; that I need to understand it all. The Taoist/Buddhist in me tells me that I need to stop grasping, and let Her go. The Christian in me tells me that I’m a no good-piece-of-shit-sinner-and-it-doesn’t-matter-what-I-do-I-am-going-to-hell. The lover within me is telling me to never give up hope, and to keep trying; that it will work out because the greater forces of the Universe brought us together; that although it’s heartbreaking right now, things can be repaired if I prove myself. Much to my chagrin, my ego agrees with my Christian self, and are beating the shit out of me while I crawl and try to find my glasses. The Taoist and Buddhist parts of me are just watching the whole ordeal and shaking their heads in disapproval, while the lover cries violently in the corner, and the philosopher searches frantically for the meaning of the chaos around him. I cry out, and remember when I was safe in bed with Her. This is the state of affairs inside of me. I am being pulled apart.
I am being pulled apart.
Yours In Contemplation,