wonderment

i wondered aloud, some days ago, after having wondered silently, whether that thing which i accomplished, the only thing of note that sublimated from my dull, impactless expanse within this depressing or unexamined existence, would persevere now that my circumstances generally do not require its graces. in short, boring, non-fancy words: i wondered whether, now that loneliness is no longer my lot, not even the kind of loneliness that comes with proximity to (the wrong) people, my hard earned ability to conquer the ill effects of my own isolated, underutilized, anxiety-accelerated mind, would dissipate into the same nothingness that consumed my bachelorhood.

you see, i lived as a monk for a long time. i sort of planned it that way, even. it had benefits that paid off, but the obvious irony is that 203 conducted her own life in nearly exactly the opposite fashion, and yet she and i "ended up" in "the same place". that sort of realization might cause the honest introspector to suspect that perhaps "it wasn't worth it". of course, that same introspector might realize, were he to think a step further, that if he considers his present "worth it", then his past was necessary, unless he were to believe in fate, in which case -- and so on. it's a well trod and tired path that leads nowhere.

but again: from my years of isolation and inward "growth", did i accomplish anything, or is it all a sham i created in my mind to justify the waste of a decade of the only thing precious on this world?

(a note: i win either way. if it's a sham, then the very sham-creating superpower that i posess i gained from the isolation makes it "worth it", since a sham is a handy thing to have around. and if it wasn't a sham, then "it" wasn't wasted. clever, eh?)

i live my life as a narrative, because to do otherwise is boring to me. i dramatize my own life in my own mind because the alternative is to have to do things for myself. got that? i'm authoring my own life moments or hours or days before i go and read aloud from my script. or, sometimes, i go back in time and fill in the narrative bits that tie together the pointless sequence of events that make up my life.

i am pretty sure i don't experience sanity in the same way as others. that's okay with me, i think i prefer my sham, anyhow.

there's not a single thing i have to complain about in my love life since last may, and not a single regret that i have for the way my life has turned out since last december, but i still haven't gotten my acceptance around the facts of the world prior to those months. the past saddens me because i see now that i could have lived it otherwise, and because while she was living it otherwise, i wasn't living it with her. i suppose this is normal for folks who dont successfully marry their first love. normal doesn't make things easier, it just means i have silent company in my difficulties, folks that, presumably, could tell me how they cope. but i don't need to hear it, because coping is what sainttoads do best.

i can conquer any bout of anxiety, loneliness, ennui, or realization-that-she-had-a-life-before-me induced angst by recalling the fact that while i may be without her at the moment, there is no time in the forseeable future when i will be without her for more than a few moments. afternoons and evenings drag on, but they are not days, they are not weeks, and before i am faced with eternity, i expect never to be apart for more than weeks. days, perhaps, if desire never fades.

and yet, my old methods of coping had nothing to do with her. is it irony that my methods now consist of simply acknowledging that the cause will cease? the old method was to acknowledge that the cause did not exist -- now that there is a cause, my methods shift from self-reliance to extra-self-dependence, and thus, they are no longer "my methods". so what?

so what. that brings me back to the beginning: was it all for nothing? i want, always, more. and more. and after that, more again. and why not?

inside, some corner of mind pays the price for smoothness of the rest of being. this is not me, i think: this is everyone. away far off in some dusty attic of what passes for consciousness, a tiny, shriveled prisoner twists chained to torturous eternity, folding and contorting himself that the rest of a man may capture some semblance of sanity, and function in life with a smile. this sad homunculus is the one that sees suffering in the world, and bears the burden of missed opportunity, lost chances, and unconquerable shackles of being. it is he that bends the mind to obscure and vanish the worries and the honesty that will consume and digest happiness. from him, i live. i can't be the only one.

the idea, needless to say, is a bit disturbing. but then, so are world events, so are life events, so are the events of the last five minutes here on this very couch. how else can one continue smiling but to embrace the sham?