“Conversed with absolute time and space. And time and space. And time and space. And nothing really matters anymore.”
I told my lover, “Sometimes I feel sort of guilty, because there are people out there who just want a bit of my attention, and I have a hard time mustering the discipline to write to, or about, them.”
Alright, it wasn’t that well stated. It was more of one of those, I’m babbling to myself here, and you’re unfortunate enough to be within earshot. Sometimes I say it’s because I just don’t feel that urge to write, but the truth is, it’s got nothing to do with inspiration.
Believe me, you could be a wonderful muse. It’s just me. I get wrapped up in my own bullshit. Stupid things like thoughts, and silly things like feelings weighing me down. My head is buried under the covers, or caught on the pages of my own narrative. My heart plummets down to my stomach, or just out my own ass…
What I’m trying to say is that I exist in a state of perpetual, “temporarily out of order”. It also doesn’t help that I can’t sleep at night, not anymore. I get profoundly annoyed when people give me helpful suggestions as to the reasons why, without having the faintest clue about the pertinent details.
My particular brand of insomnia, the what and why of it, is something I have intimate knowledge of.
I’ve spent nights, just staring through the ceiling, or the wall. With the lights off and the sounds of the world muffled. It doesn’t help. It just makes me hyper focused on the fact that I can’t sleep. Sleeplessness turns to nostalgia, and that always leads to heartache.
When I lay in bed, alone and still like that, that’s when the sad memories and the bad ideas (not the sexy kind that I enjoy) start to nibble at my brain, or sink their teeth into the meat of my soul.
All those ugly little fucking critters, gnawing away at me, until there’s nothing but a pulp of sulk, and the brittle skeleton of reality that I can’t seem to flesh out with my dreams…
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not always like that. I sort of resent when people can only see the void aspect to me. For every black hole in the galaxy of my psyche, there are vivid and thriving star systems right next door. I’m infinite sadness, but limitless wonder as well. I dance with my darkness just as much as I stumble around the light.
I’m the eternal spiral, curling inwards into myself, or expanding out exponentially, depending on which direction I’m traveling at any given moment. I am two forces that seem to be opposites, but are really just different aspects of the same energy.
It’s like the concept of wishing on shooting stars. I know they’re not literally stars that are falling. I get that they’re meteorites, but let’s call this taking creative liberties…
Sometimes something beautiful has to die, to bring your hopes and wishes to life. That’s the law of equivalent exchange, but it’s rarely ever equal.
My point is that it’s possible to simultaneously feel sorrow for the star as it falls to earth, but elation that someone out there is going to be granted a wish; the hope that it could be you; the gratitude that it’s possible. You can also experience, at that same moment, the fear that maybe a larger chunk of debris is going to hit us, and wipe out all life on the planet.
If you take the essence of those complex feelings — all happening together at the same time, in the same consciousness — and wrap it up in a fleshy shell that looks like a girl… That’s who and what I am.
That’s where I live. In the center of the spiral. At the heart of all that chaotic and frightening wonder. I think that makes me pretty ordinary, because I’ve seen a lot of faces in the vortex.
Maybe I saw you too. But, how would I know? You remain stubbornly faceless and nameless.
It’s probably better to keep your distance anyway. It’s better to observe a bizarre phenomenon than be involved in it.