I was up late last night all alone fishing around with colour tables trying to come up with combinations for art someone else’d find cute, hash and rehash humour ideas and fun wordplay that I hoped would make someone else smile, go through this seemingly infinite play list (favouring those I could sing, well) in my head to come up with “an irresistible” subset to precisely articulate all that I needed said to someone else. (By “an irresistible”, I think I was hoping I’d be irresistible after the recipient heard it? I don’t really know.)
And then it happened, I snapped. I stopped seeing the purpose in what I was doing or what I hoped to achieve. I was literally screaming “Good god what am I doing with my life” internally. It think it hit me, hard, that some things aren’t designed to be fixed with effort.
I’ve now indefinitely shelved 3 or 4 attempts at “expression masked with fluff”. And, at the moment, I hope I don’t weaken and ever reopen them again unless I’m very sure it’s going to result in something tangible. Something more than me having to deal with the hurt of attempting to open myself, just to have it seem pale in comparison to other things I cannot always comprehend or match up to. It’s like, when you’re this drug addict (according to what I see and hear from the media anyway), you have to hit this extremely low point before you realize everything’s a horrid mess and needs to be revamped. Not revamped to become glorious. Just to be ok – to be on par with some generic measure of central tendency.
I think I reached that point last night. Not that it was terribly different or depressing or anything like that. It got to be that point by definition. It made me decide to force myself to attempt to make sure every day from that point on is going to be.. more. More fun, meaningful, productive, memorable, … or anything. Just be and mean a little more than what my days are currently amounting to. I’m going to take subtle (and not so subtle) yet concrete steps to turn this around. I’m going to work on me and aspects of my life until I’m out of this rut. I am going to keep telling myself something like this until I really see some progress. As a starter, not like I really used it, I removed the yellow stickey with her number (which for some reason seems like so much more than a bit of paper) from my wallet. See? subtle, yet concrete.
It’s so fishing ironic when you really think about it. When things are just.. there, you fail to comprehend how much they mean to you. You don’t necessarily want them all the time, or spend hours and days thinking about having them. Once they’re gone, you suddenly begin to miss them. Miss them very much. You suddenly realize all this want and need that hadn’t surfaced at a point when it probably would have made a world of difference. Which leads me to wonder, is any of this real? Or is it just the tantrum throwing child in you. You’re just screaming and wailing and trying your best to portray how much the doll or whatever means to you, because you’re quite sure you aren’t getting it. Least you can do is make everyone else around feel a little guilty in denying you.
I think internally I’ve always pitied people wasting their lives over things they can’t have and points they cannot reach. (Not necessarily great things or great points, just ones that will not materialize for them.) At some point I’ve morphed to that person.
Ok, something needs to be done.