Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake of this creeping malaise
If I don’t stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of this maze?
Its hard to explain why we're sad sometimes... its nothing serious, certainly nothing to point at, and yet I just feel like going to bed so it can be tommorrow and maybe I'll be in a better mood.
What real service do I provide the world? Am I making anyones life any better? Maybe I will, maybe I am, but even that, those few memorable moments, what do they matter twenty to thirty to forty years from now? or more importantly a mere one hundred years from now? One hundred years from now I'll, we'll all, be nothing but...
I'm sure it'll go away, I'm sure I'll be fine tommorrow (I feel better already just recognizing what it is that ailes me), but every so often I just can't shake the feeling that its all for naught and if I'm only going to be dust one day I might as well be dust this day...
time is the real killer we should all beware, so soft, unavoidable, and oh so permanent.
I told this story before, but I'll tell it again:
I am young, around six or seven years old. We, my mother and I, are in our living room of the house on addison. We're reading a book. She's reading to me. My mind wanders and somehow I grasp complete nothingness - its not what I expected, no empty room, no lack of communication, not even a body floating without surroundings; death is nonexistance. We always like to think about 'spirits', souls, and memories but the dead have no memory; the dead don't exist.
Being six or seven and stumbling upon this realization was a real buzz kill. At the time I cried. A week later I spoke with the priest, but by then, only a week later, I was already ready to avoid the topic and just mustered some little story easy to be swayed by a whisper of Christ...
Years later, in college, that day would come back to haunt me - condemn my every motive.
I can remember sitting in my room at high street, four AM, everything else quiet, jar of flies on repeat, sweating profusely trembling to the beat of my own demise.
Eventually I just stopped worrying about it... I may have even come to move beyond my fear as I trust in christ and everything that book says. And yet, I know the book was only written by men: every so often I remember what death means...
sounds like a sad story? not really, somewhere, in a dream perhaps, I was told that a girl would come along and none of this would make sense any more... something about love beats the demon, the devil whispering words, and a kiss making it all go away...
I am a romantic, I know this is my only way out...
If I don’t stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of this maze?
Its hard to explain why we're sad sometimes... its nothing serious, certainly nothing to point at, and yet I just feel like going to bed so it can be tommorrow and maybe I'll be in a better mood.
What real service do I provide the world? Am I making anyones life any better? Maybe I will, maybe I am, but even that, those few memorable moments, what do they matter twenty to thirty to forty years from now? or more importantly a mere one hundred years from now? One hundred years from now I'll, we'll all, be nothing but...
I'm sure it'll go away, I'm sure I'll be fine tommorrow (I feel better already just recognizing what it is that ailes me), but every so often I just can't shake the feeling that its all for naught and if I'm only going to be dust one day I might as well be dust this day...
time is the real killer we should all beware, so soft, unavoidable, and oh so permanent.
I told this story before, but I'll tell it again:
I am young, around six or seven years old. We, my mother and I, are in our living room of the house on addison. We're reading a book. She's reading to me. My mind wanders and somehow I grasp complete nothingness - its not what I expected, no empty room, no lack of communication, not even a body floating without surroundings; death is nonexistance. We always like to think about 'spirits', souls, and memories but the dead have no memory; the dead don't exist.
Being six or seven and stumbling upon this realization was a real buzz kill. At the time I cried. A week later I spoke with the priest, but by then, only a week later, I was already ready to avoid the topic and just mustered some little story easy to be swayed by a whisper of Christ...
Years later, in college, that day would come back to haunt me - condemn my every motive.
I can remember sitting in my room at high street, four AM, everything else quiet, jar of flies on repeat, sweating profusely trembling to the beat of my own demise.
Eventually I just stopped worrying about it... I may have even come to move beyond my fear as I trust in christ and everything that book says. And yet, I know the book was only written by men: every so often I remember what death means...
sounds like a sad story? not really, somewhere, in a dream perhaps, I was told that a girl would come along and none of this would make sense any more... something about love beats the demon, the devil whispering words, and a kiss making it all go away...
I am a romantic, I know this is my only way out...
2 Comments:
rereading this post I wish I could always be this honest with my writing, its so hard to explain that you feel like life isn't worth living when you yourself know that you really don't believe that and its just a passing phase (one of my bad days). So often I'd rather ignore my sad/angry/negative etc. emotions, but ignoring them bars the poems/poetry of being the real up-and-down roller coaster that life should be...
A girl; a friend of a friend--recently wrote a very heartfelt religious testimony about how she had gotten over bulimia and how she had turned to Christ and is now born again. She sent this to a bi-sexual couple, friends of mine, who are both very fearful of her direction in life and are concerned that she is going off the deep end.
I tried to reassure them that she's trying at least to be authentic. She's trying to be herself and be honest with who she is and how she has changed.
There are so many times I stultify apologizing for myself for things that do not require apologies, and I think I'm seeing this lessening as I allow myself to feel both the bad and the good.
Sometimes you're in a bad mood.
{shrug}
Thanks for being real.
:-)
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