raybear | But since no one ever returns from these depths alive

I could sit here and write some update, find something to ramble, some list of items on my agenda today and what happened and I did or didn't like and what strange person was next to me in the grocery store and what video game I played or phone calls I didn't make but it would all just be made-up bullshit because I can't write about what's really going. And I can't because I can't articulate it because if I could write it down or find words to match things up, then I'd have to fix it, right, and maybe I don't know if I want that or even scarier I don't know if I can. I mean, sure life will go on, we're not talking about life-ending items of problem here, but still maybe life-altering, still maybe the stuff that's caught in the middle that's supposed to be making up your life anyway.

I had too many fantasies. Have too many fantasies. There were too many ways that I sat and constructed not only what everyone else would say and feel but also what I would be doing and saying and feeling and this caused me to think, hey I actually have control over these things and I"m a little scientific vacuum where if A exists, then I'll do B, but what happens when I have A, and B isn't coming around? What happens when I can't construct myself because you know what, this ain't your fantasy world billy bob and you have to deal with what's real and what's concrete and things don't go your way not for lack of planning but just because that's fucking life kid and if you want to be an adult in this world you'll realize such things.

I'm a strange mess of contradiction where I want to sleep when I'm tired and eat when I'm hungry and get drunk when I want to get drunk and brush my teeth when they feel grimey to the touch of the tongue and get everything taken care of as the need arises. But, I also thrive on habits and patterns and traditions and inertia. I like reliability. I like knowing certain thing will always be there or certain conclusions are always inevitable and if I want this to pop out at me than pull that lever and every time it will work like a charm with no worries about whether the sun will come up tomorrow. Some philosophers say there's no guarantee. There's no real reason to believe it's definite that the sun will rise and it will be in the east and the day will begin on it's usual note. These are related to people who talk about the risk of flying being overwhelmingly safer than driving, statistically speaking, just like transmission is nearly zero when it comes to epidemic models but what about those hundreds of people's lives that prove statistically insignificant but it still seems pretty damn significant in there daily lives? I'm getting off topic. Besides, those are scientists that say such things and scientists would scoff at an inspriation meditation on the taking for granted of the sunrise and say to pick something else because, baby, it's happening whether you believe it or not.

I'm stupid, no stupider than the average person walking around in the cloud, but stupid nonetheless, partly because I can see it. Sure, I'm even cutting me some slack for being an imperfect human and all that good stuff, but frankly I don't think that works on me. I don't think reasonable accountability and comparing to other flaws makes me feel good about my fuck-ups. I'm someone who needs a touch of God complex to make it through the day. I need to know I have some sort of purpose and power and need for my presence in the world to keep up appearances, not to other but just to myself, so I won't spend so much time thinking about how alone I am and how that's pretty fucking scary. I don't mean alone in the physical sense, or even emotional sense, I mean in the we're alone in a crowd because we're all alone and it's too fucking scary for most anyone to realize. And I don't need to forget about it, nor do I need to dwell on it every passing moment when I hate being touched and hate being misunderstood, but I need it to be in the back of my mind like those automobile accident statistics. I need to know the truth and the risk and the reality but I also need it to be acceptable risk. I need a seat belt to remind myself of the danger while simultaneously helping prevent. I need that acknowledgment, every time.

It's not safe inside my skin. But there's no where else to go, so I have to make do. I have to forget out a way, especially when that sun right now is like Schrodinger's cat. In the black of night, the sun could be on it's way up or it could be getting ready to balk at the expected. It's half-rising, half-standing still and we won't know until we open that box. Like me and like that cat, it's half-dead, half-alive, at least when I'm in this state.

At night I talk like a drunk man. When the exhasution goes deep into my bones my brain and mouth run, and I say it's rambling but it's not. It might not be deeper than therapy, but it's getting off my chest and my mind things I haven't spoken for fear of how they'll be taken in the social context or how to segueway into them or how I'll phrase it for fear of being misunderstood. The tired takes that all away and it falls out of my mouth and brings relief. Midnight conversations are usually reserved for early lovers. I don't know who wrote that, me or them. Maybe in my fantasies it was still happening, but maybe not even there. And even if I had, you don't fantasize about those in-between days that lead up and fill the space between, the days that make up the live and the living.

But I talk. And talk. I'm so picky because I want people to shut the fuck up when I need silence and hang on every word when I'm needing to speak (which is not as often as one might think -- just because I talk a lot doesn't mean the decision to open my mouth was based solely on my personal desire to talk). It's childish and unrealistic and unfair but I'm not sure I'm doing a damn thing about it. I throw it in the hole and bury it and the next morning tell myself it went away, passed away in my sleep, died in my dreams, my distractions.

I gave up trying to control my dreams. I think I feared it would just make waking life harder. But maybe I just got scared by having some success with my brain. Again, if I find away to fix something, it must be fixed, so if I don't want it changed, it's best to just step back and wait for the sun to come up again, maybe several times and it shifts to a different part of the brain, back into the backroom of memory to be added to a pile and uncategorized, away from the conscious day to day. But it will leak through, and not even just through my uncontrolled dreams but even into nights like these when I swing and fight the tide and get taken into the undertow and like a stubborn fool I swim against it instead of floating down and pushing off the floor of the ocean.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

and

It is impossible to say just what I mean.