Monday, March 16, 2009

Ennui go.

This is about you and it is not about you. It is pinpoint specific and overwhelmingly generic. It contradicts and supports itself. By reading further, you acknowledge those statuses as inherent to my thought processes (which, to be fair, should come as no surprise) and cannot and will not hold the Writer of the below to be held accountable for any confusion.

Now.

Today was like the Universe presented me with a very well-arranged bouquet of No Thank Yous.

I could've used you today. But, instead, I'll go home early, open a new bag of carrots, and dedicate the eating of them to my swift realizations of deprecated self-sabotage. Tonight will be a night of inside jokes so internal that no one besides me really understands them.

I'll read Kafka and laugh to myself out of recognition. I'll listen to Closing Time and remember what beauty sounds like. I'll watch Annie Hall and remember why last year was an emotional growth spurt instigated by the muck and mire of unrealized expectation.

And it'll feel like I've been alone in my own little world for so long that I've forgotten how to actually communicate anything of even marginal substance to anyone that would be willing to listen. I'll probably consider sipping at some kind of self-destructive highball that'll turn the volume down on my internal monologue, a notch for each sip, watering the flowerbed of my discontent with 80-proof supposition.

But that urge will pass. Every drink I would take would put my ability to picture you in my mind in grave jeopardy, and that's not something I'm willing to do without. There is not room enough for both you and inebriation. You've made your home in my mind and your presence there, despite both the very basic structural strangeness of our interactions and the history we may or may not have, is a welcome one. My neuroses could use a woman's touch, and you've managed to class up the joint.

I wish I could explain this to you more articulately than in some dramatically overwritten, anonymous prose pushed into the postmodern ether that we call the internet, but I can't imagine that you wouldn't appreciate this. Words, as they have done for so long now, fail me. I have used up all of my articulation points and now I must take my rest.

The fact that you exist, regardless of where the world has seen fit to put you, is indicative of what is in store for me. And for you, frankly.

I held a baby today and he looked at me with eyes so pure that they transcended Purity and turned straight to Danger. There's some kind of elemental force behind stares like his and maybe what I'm really worried about is that I think I might still be capable of looks like that.

But there's no way to resolve this. Not yet, anyway. This is not something that can successfully be pushed, and I don't know if I even want to resolve it, because, to be frank, I'm really loving this inspiration that I've had, regardless of its accuracy.

Just be sweet.

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