Time ticks away silently; good thing it’s neutral. I’d hate me if I was Time. To be defied so pathetically and on a consistent basis, too. “The kid knows enough. He doesn’t know a lot but it’s a good start. So is there any excuse for his defiance, his squandering of my gifts? Of course not.” Time is neutral though and doesn’t see why it would be but hey. It is what it is. I can’t help but reflect, I am what I am.
Is this the part where I take a closer look at myself and realize that I can do more? That life can be more? If only I did something, right? It’s like I can see the thematic progression of events from a dissociative stance and skip to the end. That’s the weird part. If I can pretty much write out the story up until the end, why stop at the end? I think it’s because I don’t actually know how it ends and that’s what makes it so attractive, that’s why I skip to it. It’s that or I know what happens but that makes me hard and unforgiving so I’d rather believe that there is more. Of course there’s more…right?
So minutes have passed since I’ve started my explication and where am I now? Mere minutes into the rest of my days, no matter how short that may be. I can feel the cancer of my decisions if I lay still long enough. I can feel me dieing, getting younger yet so inexcusably older. I can feel the weight of all the lives I’ve yet to live, can no longer live, and am living press heavily against my bones. I creak. It’s a broken record. I’ve been here before. I’d like to pretend I don’t know what it is I have been doing lately because that would keep me instantly gratified. That would keep me running in circles and if I’m running in circles, I am not directly running myself into the ground. Yet, what’s funny enough is that the circle I’ve been running has etched itself deeper and deeper into the landscape. It has etched itself deeper into the planes of time and yet it stays neutral.
Have I not learned what to do next? Don’t I know what happens next? This is what I’d like to search for in these late hours yet it’s simple and it sits in my lap. I am a parent who has no guidance, the solution is being neglected in my lap and I will spend the rest of my life trying to figure out how shitty of a person I am if I don’t act now. And my child—the solution will wonder too. “Am I not enough? What distress have I caused? What have I stolen?” As the parent, I can only hope that I will do better in the future and that my child will one day come to understand. Sometimes, we lose ourselves.
Sometimes we’re just bodies of water surrounded by landmass. Sometimes we have no where to go (or so it seems). To encroach upon land, to spill over the soil…why, that’s suicide! We’ve seen the rest, they just…get absorbed! It’s over, we’re done in. I’m trapped. You’re told grand tales of rivers, of other currents and bodies having worked hard and long at the land: they’ve transformed the land! “It is true,” they say! “It has to be, I’ve seen it!” I’ve seen the canyons. I’ve seen the work of one attempt, one tendril of water having worked its way on the land. I’ve seen the difference just one river can make, just one attempt. Yet no one seems to tell the other stories on those dark stormy nights, on the nights where our ancestors rain all hell upon us. The nights (and even days!) where some of our sisters and brothers get so worked up and so angry at how enclosed they are that they form giant waves and crash down upon land. Those are sad times but we hear in the gales and whisperings of the wind that it is natural, that this is how it always was and always will be. There will be bodies of water that get so heated that they form mass congregations of vapor and form clouds. They form hurricanes, and with the fury and despair of the oceans they deliver upon land the sorrows of our depths. We are too human out here, at sea.
No one seems to tell the stories about the lost. They’re merely acknoweldged in grim and solemn silence. Yes, they crashed down upon land but what of them now? They are not here. Some say the return as the tears of our ancestors in the storm clouds but not everyone belives that. And if they do return as the rain, as the tears…then they are not the same. They are not who they were and once was. They are something different entirely. What’s the point of approaching land and trying to move as naturally as all water should? It’s within your make-up to expand. So what of when you can’t? What’s with this madness? If I were to…if I were to throw myself against the landmass that surrounds me on all ends, I must accept two things.
One, to do so, I must use myself. I must use the essence of myself to forge a path and that scares me. There is a finite amount of myself. If I try and fail…
Two, this is me. This is my life. I could swirl in upon myself in depravity, giving in to my neurotic tendencies and my abnormal currents. Yes, I could whirlpool upon whirlpool out of my desire to start over. Oh how I yearn…I don’t want to be here, like this. I want to be something else, somewhere else. But…if I WERE, if I were to be that, to do that…what would be the point? Like those that return as rain to our aggregate, they are not the same; I would not be the same. Only the echo of who I am/was would be able to reap some satisfication and happiness from the change. I would lose myself and so, I would lose the ability to reap satisfication from such change. I guess…I guess that’s kind of the point, huh? That’s what the rivers have learned that I’ve yet to learn. That’s the point of living or rather being born again, because life could be so wonderful?
To wash over onto shore, to be born again as something different because this is it for me now…well, that would be swell, huh? It’s about the new experiences, about “more”. The friends I could make, the loss I could feel. New journeys, new adventures and of course, new depths. More cracks to slip into and maybe never return from. Yes, it would be more than the depths in which I exist in now, all simultaneously all the time. It would be more because though redundantly put, what I have isn’t enough. What I’ve learned and what I’ve felt and what I’ve experienced has never been enough. What I search for in these midnight hours may be combed from the stories in which I’ve heard time and time again, sure. It would take a meticulous and perverse observation that would grind itself out over all the time in the world that I don’t have. But it could be done. Yet, the reason why I’m not done, why I haven’t skipped to the end, is I’m the story I haven’t heard yet. My story has yet to leave my lips or another’s: here I am, at the end and yet the beginning simultaneously all the time.
I embrace what I feel is natural and indulge my desire to expand. And thus, I must use my very mortal essence and throw myself again and again at the walls that surround me. There is no more questions, no more philosophy to be had. No more, no.
And I must work hard too. Better bodies than I have fallen so I must work hard. Who knows how many attempts it took to break free for those on the otherside…yes, I am here again and the circle is waiting for me. Yet I’ve finally taken the time to listen. I am neurotic, sure, but it turns out I’m not deaf. My passive and arrogant roundabout attempts to make it through have acted as land masses as I do a trapped body of water. The land is merely telling me—the expanding body of water—that what has been is not the way. What has been tried will not lead me upon the path in which I seek. It is not failure, it is not scorn. Time is neutral; it is merely a red flag or rather a warning that I need to switch up my paths. I need to try something different. And what I do, I need to do it harder. I need to try, harder.
It’s interesting. Even under the guise of [PT] it’s difficult deciding what to publish. I feel so alone, in more than one way. In this process and I guess in general. I’ve known for long that there is a stark difference from being alone and feeling alone (and I don’t mean “feeling alone” as in the lack of others but rather the lack regulation, comfort, confidence, etc.), so I mean it when I say I feel alone. Yet funny enough I’ll stop to wonder what a reader would think. Too easily, almost out of defensive mechanisms, I fallen into a circuit of belief where no would is going to read this or rather, would want to. That’s okay. So it goes. I can see myself in the mirror, no matter how insanely and uncomfortably close it is. That’s good.