Although capitalism demands people ought to love the holidays, they have a tendency to depress me. The narcissism, another year passing, slowly creeping towards the inevitability of death, consumerism, consumption, greed, debt, facades of happiness.
Perhaps my weariness stems from the way the year's conclusion asks me to take inventory of my life, the way it forces me to ask what I did well, or more haunting, what did I fail to achieve? How effectively did I apply ointment to my internal itch, the one that screams "JUST GO" in the silence that lays between life's songs? And, for failing to listen, am I naive or wise? What is the fault in being in a constant state of transition, always going from one place to another? No matter where you arrive, there you are. Am I running from locations or from the truth that is myself? More importantly, does it even matter?
My 2013 inventory exists as a cocktail of both under and overwhelmingness. New health. Old mistakes. Apologies. Amends. Falling in love. Falling out of love. I broke up with friends and built new ones on more stable foundations. I lost inspiration and found it tucked deep within the corners of locked drawers. Rewind. Repeat. Replay. As if fantastical relationships are excuses to not go out and live the life I dream of, love grew into a crutch. Maybe I should go, would go in a past life, but my happiness here in this moment is too sweet to abandon. I'm so in love, right here, precisely in this instance. Will a time in which I am not ever present itself? How could it, with such a sincere appreciation of the idiosyncrasies of the world? Such peculiarities leave me with a desire to kiss all the worry away, there, in that moment, of whatever it is that exists within my field of vision. Crying. Laughing. You for simply being you. The faults and strengths of each embodiment, every existence worthy of knowing and understanding. My ability to see humanity in such blatant awfulness and terror is what scares me most about myself. My fright is nothing compared to my fascination. I feel too much. I'm concerned and then I am left with a choice: feel nothing, turn numb, apathetic, disenchantment or feel nauseous from all the back-and-forth tugging, all the spinning in circles. So, I sit down on the floor, do nothing, catch my breath, but then, then, I rise. I fight because that is my only response. My sole survival tool.
Will 2014 be yet another year of so much nothing and yet so much everything? Of spinning in circles, overexcitement, a perpetual imbalance of whelm, of catching my breath fearfully, only to respond with an invented humanity, my addiction to change, and an unquenchable thirst for justice. Oh, most certainly. Most certainly.
Perhaps my weariness stems from the way the year's conclusion asks me to take inventory of my life, the way it forces me to ask what I did well, or more haunting, what did I fail to achieve? How effectively did I apply ointment to my internal itch, the one that screams "JUST GO" in the silence that lays between life's songs? And, for failing to listen, am I naive or wise? What is the fault in being in a constant state of transition, always going from one place to another? No matter where you arrive, there you are. Am I running from locations or from the truth that is myself? More importantly, does it even matter?
My 2013 inventory exists as a cocktail of both under and overwhelmingness. New health. Old mistakes. Apologies. Amends. Falling in love. Falling out of love. I broke up with friends and built new ones on more stable foundations. I lost inspiration and found it tucked deep within the corners of locked drawers. Rewind. Repeat. Replay. As if fantastical relationships are excuses to not go out and live the life I dream of, love grew into a crutch. Maybe I should go, would go in a past life, but my happiness here in this moment is too sweet to abandon. I'm so in love, right here, precisely in this instance. Will a time in which I am not ever present itself? How could it, with such a sincere appreciation of the idiosyncrasies of the world? Such peculiarities leave me with a desire to kiss all the worry away, there, in that moment, of whatever it is that exists within my field of vision. Crying. Laughing. You for simply being you. The faults and strengths of each embodiment, every existence worthy of knowing and understanding. My ability to see humanity in such blatant awfulness and terror is what scares me most about myself. My fright is nothing compared to my fascination. I feel too much. I'm concerned and then I am left with a choice: feel nothing, turn numb, apathetic, disenchantment or feel nauseous from all the back-and-forth tugging, all the spinning in circles. So, I sit down on the floor, do nothing, catch my breath, but then, then, I rise. I fight because that is my only response. My sole survival tool.
Will 2014 be yet another year of so much nothing and yet so much everything? Of spinning in circles, overexcitement, a perpetual imbalance of whelm, of catching my breath fearfully, only to respond with an invented humanity, my addiction to change, and an unquenchable thirst for justice. Oh, most certainly. Most certainly.
