My Own Version
a story about enjoying being alone
i don’t mind being alone, and i don’t feel lonely. i feel safest, and most beautiful, loved, and treasured, valued absolutely in my own company.
here, i don’t have to hold anyone’s hand, or assure anyone of anything, or listen to anyone’s lies.
here, i haven’t got to bite my tongue or mind my manners to anyone’s hyper-sensitivity, or inescapable need for validation.
here, there’s nothing to guess.
But I’m not lonely. And I’m not in denial, I don’t think.
a lovely Gemini
I met a lovely Gemini
not the type you’re thinking of,
if you’re thinking of one.
This one presents much better
than most, much more
calm, and mature
by all appearances.
he insists all the crazy has
I see some residue
shining behind the shadows
in his eyes.
we sat on the beach
where he alluded to
the risk for madness
that too much thinking
in a certain context
it could be interpreted
in a very Ibsen way;
the older and the wiser man
his authoritative experience
over his dear
and delighted treasure
to assure and remind her
not to worry
her pretty little head.
in this context
it was welcome good advice,
both swift awareness
intended or inferred.
I think entirely too much. About everything, except, you know, the present moment. I used to resent being told I think too much.
How can I possibly do too much of the most necessary and natural thing to my existence? And why are people always telling me I __ too much? Maybe they don’t enough.
I’m with the rabbit in Wonderland, or whoever said it “if you don’t think, you shouldn’t speak!”
But now, in my beginning-middle-age I understand that thinking is the root cause of all my suffering and life is pain and wouldn’t I be happier if I never thought of anything at all ever again? But perhaps this is my karma, my penance, my Hurculean task, my Atlas up a hill. I’m just going to think and suffer and suffer and think and that’s the fate I picked so no use crying over it.
(And it’s very worth noting I haven’t cried over a thing since before I circumvented this most recent Craigslist shadow block. I’m restored to my former childhood-glory in that way. As primary school was the last time I gave a shit for doing well at a thing i knew I ought to be able to master. And my business is now the only thing that can pull such passionate and woeful tears. Rest assured.)
I’m still in love with Phil, and I’m still in love with Mark and maybe, especially, because, and inspite, of the fact that I can’t have either of them and I never could, and I always knew as much too.
Maybe I prefer to love dreams and fantasies. And it’s true that onto both of them I have projected an imagery of safety. A kind of welcoming toy box where I can place my colorful compliments and more bashful confessions, and a few quickly pressed moments of weakness I don’t wish to recall, but only need to release. And they both very sweetly indulge me these moments and endure my nonsense because each of us knows I’m never going to allow myself to be capable of more than this.
I only hold onto my painful scars because I need some marker between dreams and reality.
And so love is the dream, and the feelings which I stir inside the purple-pink glittery-goo of my witch’s brew are surely of my own fabrication. And so what if I’ve made up my own ideas of an unattainable love?
I need these dreams and even if I don’t follow through, or whether or not they could ever come true, something has to hold me, or I have to hold something, in order to hold myself down. I need some dream to keep me committed to participating in life in this plane. Because reality is bleak and I mostly hate it and if I don’t draw fantasies I will spin out and float away for sure, otherwise. Without my poems and play pretend love affairs and clandestine and tortured romances I couldn’t find a point for an existence bound to money, false and forced blind allegiance to these invisible, demon-ruled goverments and pagan consumer holidays dedicated to gods no one believes in. My preoccupation with love satisfies and stabalizes me much more than trying to find a logical thread of truth in the lives and legacies of everyone who whines and complains and bemoans the desparity and injustice in this world, yet refuses to do anything but make more excuses for “the system.”
If I couldn’t escape the fakeness and illusion of society’s reality I would rather just die.
Simple as that.
So one affair to the next, one embellished and idealized paramor after the other I go. Because in a world of illusion, a life of lies, surrounded on all sides by cowards, theives, clowns and spies, what’s one more layer?
And why shouldn’t I create my own version of the truth?
Literally everyone else does it.