Sea Sponges

I have been endowed with the abhorred necessity to over-think life. When combined with an abnormal amount of sensitivity and sponge-like receptivity, I often find myself overstimulated, confused, and frustrated. Life can be pretty cool. Like the beach. There are all sorts of people at the beach. Some of them really know how to soak up the sun and relax while snacking on ice cream cones. Some of them swim fearlessly out in the deep making friends with sharks and dolphins alike. Some build sandcastles or play volleyball. Some just show-off. Then there are those toddlers who waddle precariously to the water's edge until a wave knocks them over. They cry, gargling salty sea water, rub sand off of their behinds, and then get right back up....only to face another freaking wave. At some point, I have been all of the above. Yet for some reason, the moments when the waves knock me over are the ones I seem most to remember. I mean, I've had my fair share of ice cream, but somehow it's the salt taste that remains behind. Of course, you can't settle for that. Though it's possible to allow the bitterness to remain in your mouth, even your body has the natural reaction to swallow it back. I could let myself go and enter into a downward spiral where nothing matters and everyone can go screw themselves. I've been there before, but it is nothing more than a frightened attack on my very necessity as a human being to care. I realize that much of adult life is (or should be) a return to vulnerability and innocence. As a toddler, this was simple. Our trust was not yet tarnished and so walking to the ocean's edge was easy. It's after your trust has been damaged that the choice to be open and free seems risky. It requires strength. Where before it was wide-eyed and innocent curiosity, it is now the willful decision to stand bravely facing the water in full knowledge that it may knock you over. It is accepting my sponge-like tendency to absorb life. If I remove this inborn characteristic, I may be freeing myself from the risk of danger but I am also removing any chance for wonder. Yes, a stranger's frown may leave me upset for hours, but I love the way someone's genuine smile makes me feel lighter than air. So, the waves are inevitable, right? Then I intend to face them and feel them fully. Perhaps time will never lessen the sting of impact, but I hope to discover something cleansing in that. 

A Few Observations

There is very little in life that seems to match up, very little that will allow itself to be reconciled. Making sense of things cannot occur, but it is always the goal. Much of my life has consisted of internal processing, and I thought at some point, it would cease and I would put all of my conclusions towards leading a happy, somewhat peaceful, lifestyle. Unfortunately, this does not happen and instead of increased peace, there is only the opposite. Actually, that's not true. There can be found some satisfaction, but it occurs in short bursts and seem to faintly underline everything else. It's as if the air is chock-full of angry birds flying about pecking at each other, and I am below walking on soft grass while avoiding lethal contact. I look around and see that everyone is hunting for something. No one cares, and yet everyone holds the same constant desperation. No one is pursuing anything, and yet each effort is wildly pathetic, amazingly unclear, and insanely useless. It's like flailing your arms in the air, or throwing rocks at an apparition. You do it so passionately, yet your very aim is silly and pointless. I find conversations with people so agonizing, so underwhelming. Most of what is said is vapid, unimportant, silly. "I work at a cheese factory." "Wow, that sounds like fun." "Yeah, well, it's a job." "Yeah, you gotta make money somehow." "Yeah." This is only the beginning and it devolves from there. What do people discuss? Their work. Work is how we define ourselves. The problem is that most people hate their jobs, and so the topics of discussion deteriorate into nothing more than cigarettes and existental statements like, "That's life", and "It is what it is." What more can be added when all share the same belief in nothing? Yet I know that that can't be so. People want something real. I want something real. You don't have to smile when you tell me. You don't have to make it sound pretty or interesting or funny or correct. Just tell me a real thing about yourself. I question what most people tell me. Everything seems suspicious. So, I find that my relationships are built upon lies. Every relationship, while all are important in varying degrees, hold a common theme of falsity. We are not holding hands through anything. We are merely placing our hands over our mouths to keep from spilling out into the other person. Perhaps if I were to show myself, truly, to another person, I wouldn't speak at all. There would be a lot of blubbering and moaning and sighing. I wouldn't laugh or feign surprise or work myself up. I would simply be and that would be enough. Yet what is friendship except a molding of ourselves into the expecations that others hold for us? I am a dozen different people in the course of one day. We give people what they want, and assume then that we given them what they need. What we end up feeding people is a lot of s***, while our insides are crying out the truth. We explain their lives in a way that makes it all okay, and seethe inwardly with what we know we should say. Why do we force ourselves to be so miserable? Why do we pretend to be helpless? Is it so very comfortable to remain guilt-ridden and bitter? This is not the life that I desire, yet I wait upon Someone to make it different from what it is. Perhaps I should call upon Houdini. I am asking for a magic trick, for a rabbit to be pulled out of a hat, or a man to be sawed in half and survive to tell about it.I wish to be forced into a purpose or plan. I wish for each step to be drawn in front of me so that all will be left for me to do is place my feet accordingly into the perfectly-sized shapes. Predetermination. Powerlessness. It is only an endless waiting game. Why wait? What is stopping me from jumping, leaping, swiming, reaching for the next thing? Capability will not be thrust upon me. It is cultivated by me and me alone. Yet I do not wish to pretend to care about that which I do not. Why force myself to be friends with everyone? You may smoke your cigarette and talk about "game" and whether or not you have it, or how rock climbing is so fun, or how that guy is a pool shark, or can I buy you a drink? or shots are so much fun, or maybe I'll quit and show that ungrateful S.O.B., or I deserve to meet a nice man, or these shoes were only ten dollars, or I can't believe it's raining, or what the heck is she doing here?, or my band is going to be big, I know it, or yeah, man, it's crazy out there, man, do what you gotta do, man, whatever, man, stick with it, man, you got this, man, but I won't care. I've heard it all before. You're faking it, and I'm done with all that.

Clips from Life

"I think my right foot is bigger than my left foot."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because every time I try on a pair of shoes, the right shoe is tighter than the left."
"No, I think they just make right shoes smaller."
"Really?"

"What are you mad about, sad about, glad about?"
"Uhhh..."

"Is that what Mom and Dad got for you?"
"I thought Santa brought the presents..."
"No, he's not real."
"Oh."

"Hey. It's me. Can you tell Mom or Dad to come pick me up? They forgot me again."

"Hello there! How do you know the Tatum family?"
"I'm one of them."
"Oh my! I'm terribly sorry. You're the only one with dark hair!"
"Yeah, I know. I look like my Dad."

"Hey, you there. Don't smear so much make-up on your face."
"Okay...thanks."

"Staying out of trouble?"

"You're not getting into trouble are ya'?"

"What kind of trouble have you been getting yourself into?"

"Hey, trouble."

"Do I bother you?"
"I don't know."
"You think I'm annoying..."
"I don't know."
"Do you just want me to stop talking to you?"
"Sure."

"Can I have some pop?"
"Some what?"
"Pop. I want some pop."
"The bathroom is down the hallway to the left."

"You want a cigarette? Hahahahahahaha."

"So, you don't have a boyfriend?"
"Nope."
"Oh my, that's too bad. You're such a beautiful girl."

"Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

"Still no boyfriend?"

"He's really into you."
"He's in prison."
"He's such a nice guy though."

"Why does she keep following us?"
"I don't know."
"Tell her to go away. She's annoying."
"Shh! She's the Pastor's daughter."

"Oh, hey! You'd better stop running so fast! You're the Pastor's daughter."

"Aw, man, have you seen that movie Horrible Bosses?"
"No."
"Really? Jackass 3?"
"No."
"You've seen Human Centipede though, right?"
"No."
"...Damn."

"What are you doing up?"
"I was just getting some.."
"Get your ass in bed!!"

"So, why are you quitting the program?"
"I don't know. I really just don't have the time."
"How will you get spiritual accountability?"
"Well, my friends are really strong. I can still talk to them."
"Yes, but I wish you would reconsider."
"Well, I don't know..."
"Can I pray for you?"

"It Happened One Night is one of my favorite movies, too! ...Can I kiss you?"
"Um, no."

"Are you going to eat the whole pint of Ben and Jerry's?"

"Enjoying that cake there, fattie?"

"Nom nom nom."

"You know, all those people. I don't really believe them. They're so happy all the time. I just, I'm sorry, I don't think it's really like that."

Mud

Why do I so often feel pushed into spaces in which I cannot fit? It is as if a dark shadow hovers above me, wordlessly threatening me lest I fail to force myself into the cracks that contort and wound me. I am forced down into the depths and high up into the clouds. This thing laughs at me as I turn to run and find myself facing it around the next corner. Inescapable, it haunts me with its worm-like demeanor. Like a puff of stale air or a splash of reeking water it teases and provokes me, pretending to be merely aggravating, rather than paralyzing. It calls me names that I do not recognize and peels away layers of skin that I thought remained safe from inspection. Tirelessly, it works to disregard my efforts and seeks only to throw every ambition over the edge of a cliff. I feel precarious. I embrace this. Laughingly, I waltz across a thin cord, giggling as each wavering step sends me closer to toppling over. Call me Sister, call me Daughter, call me Good, call me Strong. I reach for these things and discover they are dust in my hands. Forward, forward I lunge, convinced that this means progress. This shadow is behind me, surely. Yet ahead it lurks with a new disguise. Each time, a new disguise. Enraged, I reach once again for the names it provides and spit in the dust to create a form I can recognize. I feel hands rubbing mud in my eyes and I cry out because I know this story well. Eagerly, I remove the grime from my eyes and look about to see this new world I have been promised. Leering, grinning, salivating at my false hope, the shadow beckons to me from its clausterphobic hole. I, unable to resist, pretend it does not exist, and step into the trap of my own accord.

Breaking Bones

This generation is all about disparity, creating a rift between us and the next guy. We're not interested in being the same. We value what's different, and we weigh our value in the distance that separates each person. Yet there isn't any difference. There isn't any unique quality that sets us apart. She moved to the city to get away, thought maybe she was too good for that rural town and its primitive ways. She thought traipsing through the metropolitan streets in her stiletto heels would increase her significance. Staring up at those skyscrapers that seem to go on forever, and observing the unceasing bustle of the streets, life just seems more important here. Yet the sameness can be found inside the buildings, inside its countless rooms, where cocoons and shells are laid out for each man. A businessman bites his fingernails for a paycheck, another trades his youth for wrinkles to meet a deadline, and each returns home to an empty apartment. Maybe one has a wife waiting and he knows she's not the one, and another will sip whiskey to forget he's alone. What makes these men so different from the ones that plow the fields or lay foundations? They wake each morning, and grind through the workday with the same ferocity and the same hopelessness. What difference does it make if one holds a pen or a shovel? Superiority is an ugly thing because it is imagined and implemented by those too afraid to accept life as simple or equal. If you strip away the little details and flourishes that we adorn ourselves with to feel more special, and slice through the top layer of our superficiality, you'll find bones , hard and resolute. This skeleton refuses to shift with our whimsical concepts, but remains to bind us all together, to remind us of our equality.

Reconciliation

It isn't that I dislike the morning. The early hours do hold a kind of cheery optimism with which one can imagine endless possibilities and productivity. The air is freshest in the morning, as if the earth churned out something new overnight. No, it isn't that I do not appreciate the precious quality of each sunrise and new day, it is simply the struggle with with I must contend in order to greet this opportunity that I detest. There is a psychological constraint which binds me to my bed and bids me back to sleep. It is the bridge one must cross before reaching the open, green meadow. I know what lies across this rickety, old thing, but my fear pulls me back. I suppose I have the night to blame for this. Darkness provokes imagination and I often find myself wholeheartedly delving into a tomorrow in which I will rise early and conquer all. Yet when the morrow arrives, I fall prey to whimping out and shutting up and lying still and calling quits and dropping dead. You see, waking up and rising from my bed means facing myself in the mirror. I have to conquer myself. Everyday is a kind of reconciliation with the person peering back at me. I must make amends with every feature and flaw and convince them to behave just for today. I remind them to be restricted here, and subtle there, and to never appear forced. I envy the effortless and I question their tactics. Somehow I successfully persuade myself that it will all become easier and the process more refined. Imagine waking refreshed, and bounding out of bed like an angel, the sheets spreading like wings behind you. You see, I overthink this. You see, it is the night time. Tomorrow shall be the same.

A Rose Torn Apart

Romantic mystery, ha. Deep understanding, ha. Intense yearning, ha. You know, romanticism should be guillotined. It is the root of unfair expectation and misguided interpretation. In order to maintain the fantasy, it occupies itself in the eyes and nose, the lips and cheekbones. Yes, it resides in the physical appearance of its human puppets. Smiles and gazes do well to bewitch and capture, yet to penetrate beneath the muscle and dermis is to expose the lie. Lust masquerades as a poem; sweet lines dripping over his tongue, spilling over, languishing softly on his lips. Greed is disguised in the vibrancy of a red rose, the smoothness of expensive chocolate, and in the touch of velvet palms. So often, dreaming girls mistake attention for care, or conversation for understanding. The emotions seem so earnest, the efforts so sincere. Yet these shallow demonstrations are little more than a high-gloss finish on a clogged outhouse. It has been said that however much you polish a turd, it is still a turd. A diamond ring is romanticism's polished turd. A five-star dinner on a terrace in Paris, France is romanticism's polished turd. Rose petals and champagne are, you guessed it, polished turds. Don Juan's turd had the polish which Jack the Ripper's turd lacked. And that, my friends, is a rose torn apart.