Essays On Neuroticism

July 7, 2016

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My appetites are either never satisfied or I am craving isolation. So little habitable territory inbetween.

AKA Why I Turn Into A Freaknik When You Start To Matter To Me

Part of me has always been morbid, it seems. Could it be my very nature to associate dread with love? That is, to fear loving because of ultimately, always, losing? That seems so cowardly.

But heartache produces such a keen sadness.

Disappointment is the bitterest draught.

Can you really fault someone for deciding they’d rather not?

But there I go again, playing a fool. It seems there is always some little silliness in me. Sometimes I think it is what saves me. More likely, it is the only thing that makes me tolerable.

The child parroted back to me that I was a “fragile flower.” But that feels true. I don’t feel strong enough to withstand anything else. Not even an attempt to make things better.

But, I know I will. I know that whether this is pure logic or a dark mood, that there is light out there somewhere. I might not find it today. But it is beautiful and I hate it because it keeps me hanging on to this hateful, hurtful world.

Each person faces loneliness. We can never truly be known by another. Well known, yes. But at the core of your being is something so subjective to the intricacies of your experiences that no one can ever fully comprehend it. You don’t even comprehend it yourself—it can still surprise you after all these years.

Sometimes, lately, you think it’s surprising you more than ever before. Is that what getting older is? Letting go of preconceptions you didn’t even know you had?

Or is that what love is: the shock of being valued leading you to see the world with new eyes?

Or is that just plain old trauma: you just got so stressed that you went completely outta your head and stuff looks weird now?

How did I get to be this old without realizing that hope and doubt are two sides of a coin?

Hope for things changing for the better? Doubting your negative beliefs and prior assessments?

Love. Insanity. Hope. Doubt. Whatever you call the little fucker, he keeps you coming back for more, doesn’t he? No better pusher on earth.

He peddles his merciless commodity and we all just spin away into the long black universe.

i wonder if stars feel lonely