A quiet night.
I haven't written lately, and that's a shame. I struggle between talking about inconsequential shit and unloading my heart here.
I have no lights on besides the monitor in front of me, the laptop on my lap. I'm listening to Hey Hey My My, by Battleme. I got it off the Sons of Anarchy soundtrack.
I have been reading I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, by Tucker Max. I'm basically his pal Slingblade, except I don't like that damn movie.
My thoughts have been troubled tonight. The last few I haven't been able to fall asleep. There's this wound that heals faster than I thought it would, but still tears open from time to time. It's that time, I suppose.
So many parts of my life I let her run. I let myself be drawn in. Compromise is part of marriage, but I feel like I gave too much. It made me sad, and when that happened, she'd be upset with me. It'd be left for me to apologize or be thrown away. I refused that last time to do either, with now obvious results.
Bob Dylan's Don't Think Twice, It's Alright is now playing. His words of optimistic ambivalence after the end of a relationship are enviable.
Shouldn't I be over this already? Why isn't that wound closed? Is it my fault? I am unsure. Hang Down Your Head, Tom Waits.
Too much introspection. Kills my potential for momentum, forward, that is. My life is new, freedom feels good. I have a closer relationship with my actual family. The impostors who hijacked me are gone.
However, like a lifer granted early release, I'm unsure of what to do with myself. My 'plans' are gone. Planning is what I'm worst at. I'm a man of reaction. I react, and wish I could proact. Fuck you, it's a word if I say it is.
No Woman No Cry, Bob Marley. I suppose I need more of that time. The stuff that is finite.
The body heals remarkably fast when it is given things to do. You've had a lot of stuff on your plate since everything went down, and you've made a lot of progress. The key when you start to not suffer from the loss so much is to take the good parts, the things you want to remember, and polish them into memories you will keep forever. Sure the bad is there, but it typically brushes away in the aftermath leaving a scar that itches now and again. Phantom pains I like to call it.
ReplyDeleteNo one can tell you the answers to your problems, but we can help you work through them with talk. That helps, Im sure of it. I almost never talk, but those few times when I do, I always feel better afterwords. Sometimes just getting the ideas out in the air can get them out of your head, as if they were lines you've been rehearsing only to finally get to act them out.
So, moral of the story is talk to us or someone. I could always use someone to talk to about things. Lord knows I could use some venting. So, call me up, kidnap me, or some such. You know where I am.