Midnight, or soon after. That's when the thoughts start. I think about all things people "say," quotes because these days, saying is rarely in the form of verbalization. Confirmation that it will work out, because it has for them, in their triumphs over nothing even remotely similar. I'd rather they just say "Whatever!" I do not mean to allude that I am special, nor do I wish to minimalize other's struggles, but I also know empathy is learned and today's version is an involuntary sympathetic term. Much like us westerners misuse Karma, empathy seems to be a foreign concept, often viewed as a weakness of the will, in this testosterone-laced culture of ours. If Karma were a thing, I'd apologize daily for my past lives' mistakes, there must have been many. I'm trying to right that ship in this one, learning too late, as lessons often are.
I read poems last night about resilience. All came across as abstract, as one man's battles rarely resemble those of another. I read Kipling, Angelou, others whose names don't ring a bell, and the famous one, which one was it? If I am the captain of my soul, I am not very adept at navigating the sea I've set out on. I have been lucky, steering clear of much of life's icebergs, often running aground in places I'd much sooner forget. My current ship has been destroyed and some say a new one will arrive, others say I must build it, but I'm exhausted. I am not a shipbuilder, yet I find my life has been spent building, usually others, bigger ships. Noah, but in reality, but with nothing more than a dinghy and a cat. Maybe this shipwrecked metaphor is incorrect and it is now that I am lost at sea, searching for dry land. The drowning metaphor feels more apropos to being lost. Anyone who passes through my wake seems to know better than I, and maybe they do, but their words, even those which reflect sincerity, register only as "Whatever."
It is not to say that there are not beacons of light on this journey and those who have protected and even saved me from myself. Compassion is caring, with action. Which makes one wonder about their own inaction. Is it possible to lose compassion for one's self? Is self-compassion a reality? If so, I've lost that ability long ago, too busy worrying about the world around me, near and far, realizing so often that my concern for others rarely mirrors my concern for myself. My desire to comfort what others would call an expendable beast has limited my options and, in so, given me an excuse to fail. I can't fail though. Not this time. I'm running out of chances, of rope, of materials to build that ship. My mind and body aren't as strong as they once were and while I warrant no charity for my lack of desire for the material.
In the next few days, I will patch up whatever vessel I can find, taking only a few familiar objects to give the illusion of home and my companion. I am all too aware I will need help pushing off and this brings me almost as much pain as the uncertainty brings me fear. I have familiar stops to make, each bringing me a little less joy than my last visit; but they are necessary and I must not turn my back on that which prolongs this expedition. Even as I write this, I think of how banal that sounds. A rewording of some ridiculous meme about life being a journey. Life is not a journey, as most of the time we stay, attached to places, people, and things. Life is an island for most. One they are content to live on forever., allowing me, or people like me, to come to visit, but not to stay. I giggle, thinking about the juxtaposition of my desire for companionship and my fondness for solitude. I guess the trick is either to be able to choose when one experiences each, which would involve selfishness or to choose which is more important, which is a sacrifice. I can't keep telling myself I'm selfless if I refuse to sacrifice, even if it is a value, though I wonder, would I still be me? I hear the words, advice, even witness those who claim bliss in the form of another misused word; blessed. I don't envy them and maybe that's my problem. Isn't envy natural? I hear their words, their text, and see their version of bliss and in my head, I say to them, "Whatever!" And maybe that's why they are there and I am here, wherever this is.
I read poems last night about resilience. All came across as abstract, as one man's battles rarely resemble those of another. I read Kipling, Angelou, others whose names don't ring a bell, and the famous one, which one was it? If I am the captain of my soul, I am not very adept at navigating the sea I've set out on. I have been lucky, steering clear of much of life's icebergs, often running aground in places I'd much sooner forget. My current ship has been destroyed and some say a new one will arrive, others say I must build it, but I'm exhausted. I am not a shipbuilder, yet I find my life has been spent building, usually others, bigger ships. Noah, but in reality, but with nothing more than a dinghy and a cat. Maybe this shipwrecked metaphor is incorrect and it is now that I am lost at sea, searching for dry land. The drowning metaphor feels more apropos to being lost. Anyone who passes through my wake seems to know better than I, and maybe they do, but their words, even those which reflect sincerity, register only as "Whatever."
It is not to say that there are not beacons of light on this journey and those who have protected and even saved me from myself. Compassion is caring, with action. Which makes one wonder about their own inaction. Is it possible to lose compassion for one's self? Is self-compassion a reality? If so, I've lost that ability long ago, too busy worrying about the world around me, near and far, realizing so often that my concern for others rarely mirrors my concern for myself. My desire to comfort what others would call an expendable beast has limited my options and, in so, given me an excuse to fail. I can't fail though. Not this time. I'm running out of chances, of rope, of materials to build that ship. My mind and body aren't as strong as they once were and while I warrant no charity for my lack of desire for the material.
In the next few days, I will patch up whatever vessel I can find, taking only a few familiar objects to give the illusion of home and my companion. I am all too aware I will need help pushing off and this brings me almost as much pain as the uncertainty brings me fear. I have familiar stops to make, each bringing me a little less joy than my last visit; but they are necessary and I must not turn my back on that which prolongs this expedition. Even as I write this, I think of how banal that sounds. A rewording of some ridiculous meme about life being a journey. Life is not a journey, as most of the time we stay, attached to places, people, and things. Life is an island for most. One they are content to live on forever., allowing me, or people like me, to come to visit, but not to stay. I giggle, thinking about the juxtaposition of my desire for companionship and my fondness for solitude. I guess the trick is either to be able to choose when one experiences each, which would involve selfishness or to choose which is more important, which is a sacrifice. I can't keep telling myself I'm selfless if I refuse to sacrifice, even if it is a value, though I wonder, would I still be me? I hear the words, advice, even witness those who claim bliss in the form of another misused word; blessed. I don't envy them and maybe that's my problem. Isn't envy natural? I hear their words, their text, and see their version of bliss and in my head, I say to them, "Whatever!" And maybe that's why they are there and I am here, wherever this is.
Comments
Post a Comment