It's like that feeling when you're so close and this time it'll happen, but somehow you lose it again and you're so frustrated and it's not there and you really wanted it this time. There it went and there you are and it hasn't happened. Again.
But you expect it, and you prepare for it, and finally it'll happen... and you're disappointed again. Left there feeling blank and angry and tired and frustrated. You hate yourself, you hate everyone around you, you hate everyone who has ever been near you and you hate everyone who will be near you in the future.
And there's nothing you can do about it. You can't get it back. You can't pick it back up. It's gone. Oh sure, you can think you'll get there again, and you'll prepare for it to happen again and you'll try something new because, let's face it, insanity is trying the same experiment and expecting different results, right?
And maybe this time you actually convince yourself that it'll work. It's going to work. This was all it took, enough feelings and love and attachment and that right there and this right here and yes, this time, yes.
But no, not this time, no.
And you smile and you live and you move on to the next thing and think, "Man. What if that could have been it? What if that could have been the time it worked?" But it's too late for that now, and here you are, frustrated and swearing off life again because it never works. Every thing you do isn't quite right, and even this ONE THING that you should be able to have. This thing that should be yours. Why don't you have this yet? Why are you the only one who just can't make it work? What is this big secret that everyone else knows and you're still sitting out on? This should be yours.
Maybe it'll happen, but by now, you doubt it. Because if it hasn't happened yet, when? Where is yours? Why isn't it here? It's that feeling. You know the one I'm talking about.
Or maybe I'm the only one that happens to.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
What is so wrong with it?
She sits staring at the fire as it dances around, popping, flinging itself up and out, filling the room with that marvelous smell.
Really, there are only so many blankets in her house. Once again, she has managed to wrap herself in every single one, as they make a warm, fuzzy, static-filled nest around her bare legs. She hasn't brushed her hair in days, again, but it's not like there is anyone to impress. She can't make that fire love her more than it already does. She won't make the hot chocolate hotter by putting on any make-up. She won't make Regina Spektor sing any softer through the stereo by getting dressed.
So there she sits, lost in that fire again.
Of course, it's the redundancy that she loves. This pattern of work, eat, work, wrap up in blankets with hot cocoa and a fire, sleep, repeat... it's dependable. It's constant. It's in her control.
Come on, drink your hot cocoa. All of the marshmallows have melted and it's getting colder.
She's sitting too close to the fire again. Her face is getting hot and she can feel it turning pinker. The blankets are warm, but her back is icy compared to her face. She keeps staring into the fire as if her eyes would turn orange from the exposure. For a moment, she forgets that she has hands that are holding the mug. She forgets about her hair sticking out haphazardly from the quilts. She forgets about her naked legs, which have long-since stopped shivering from the cold outside. She forgets about Regina singing to her about not needing to be saved. She wants to be living in the fire. She wants the sporadic movements, the twisting and shaking and reaching. She wants the passion and heat. The touching, the licking, the stretching, the ache and desire to go higher and farther and reach out through the confines. She wants to be twisting with her brothers and sisters who are also wanting more and more and consuming the oxygen and sputtering out with little bursts of light as if to say "I WAS HERE, AND NOW I'M GONE."
She blinks and takes a drink.
It's not that there's anything wrong with her life. It's not that there's anything really magical about the fire. It's more that she wants there to be. Without chaos, there is no beauty.
Truth be told, she hates being naked. She never really knows why she insists on stripping down before climbing into the blankets. It's not freeing, it's not comfortable, it's not in defiance of social norms... It's awkward. It's weird. She had rolls every so often, hasn't shaved in days (see the note about her hair), but she didn't feel ugly. Just strange. Nakedness has never meant anything to her besides nakedness. Maybe it was the fleece on her skin. Maybe it was the fire warming her whole body with direct contact. Maybe it was some erotic dream that someone would walk in in a flurry of snow to see her naked by the fire and kiss her until the fire died.
Or maybe it wasn't.
Maybe she just doesn't know what else to do.
Maybe none of it has any real purpose.
Maybe she really is just trying to find some meaning to these rituals.
Maybe her hot cocoa isn't hot anymore, and maybe Regina stopped singing 10 minutes ago, and maybe the fire is crackling down to nothing, and maybe she blinks and forgets everything she has been thinking about.
Really, there are only so many blankets in her house. Once again, she has managed to wrap herself in every single one, as they make a warm, fuzzy, static-filled nest around her bare legs. She hasn't brushed her hair in days, again, but it's not like there is anyone to impress. She can't make that fire love her more than it already does. She won't make the hot chocolate hotter by putting on any make-up. She won't make Regina Spektor sing any softer through the stereo by getting dressed.
So there she sits, lost in that fire again.
Of course, it's the redundancy that she loves. This pattern of work, eat, work, wrap up in blankets with hot cocoa and a fire, sleep, repeat... it's dependable. It's constant. It's in her control.
Come on, drink your hot cocoa. All of the marshmallows have melted and it's getting colder.
She's sitting too close to the fire again. Her face is getting hot and she can feel it turning pinker. The blankets are warm, but her back is icy compared to her face. She keeps staring into the fire as if her eyes would turn orange from the exposure. For a moment, she forgets that she has hands that are holding the mug. She forgets about her hair sticking out haphazardly from the quilts. She forgets about her naked legs, which have long-since stopped shivering from the cold outside. She forgets about Regina singing to her about not needing to be saved. She wants to be living in the fire. She wants the sporadic movements, the twisting and shaking and reaching. She wants the passion and heat. The touching, the licking, the stretching, the ache and desire to go higher and farther and reach out through the confines. She wants to be twisting with her brothers and sisters who are also wanting more and more and consuming the oxygen and sputtering out with little bursts of light as if to say "I WAS HERE, AND NOW I'M GONE."
She blinks and takes a drink.
It's not that there's anything wrong with her life. It's not that there's anything really magical about the fire. It's more that she wants there to be. Without chaos, there is no beauty.
Truth be told, she hates being naked. She never really knows why she insists on stripping down before climbing into the blankets. It's not freeing, it's not comfortable, it's not in defiance of social norms... It's awkward. It's weird. She had rolls every so often, hasn't shaved in days (see the note about her hair), but she didn't feel ugly. Just strange. Nakedness has never meant anything to her besides nakedness. Maybe it was the fleece on her skin. Maybe it was the fire warming her whole body with direct contact. Maybe it was some erotic dream that someone would walk in in a flurry of snow to see her naked by the fire and kiss her until the fire died.
Or maybe it wasn't.
Maybe she just doesn't know what else to do.
Maybe none of it has any real purpose.
Maybe she really is just trying to find some meaning to these rituals.
Maybe her hot cocoa isn't hot anymore, and maybe Regina stopped singing 10 minutes ago, and maybe the fire is crackling down to nothing, and maybe she blinks and forgets everything she has been thinking about.
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