It’s one of those empty nights in an empty life. A life of purpose but no fulfillment. A night of falling asleep on the sofa and having no inclination to go to bed even though the spasm in my shoulder is crying for a comfortable repose, the heart resists and the mind wants to know nothing of it. It’s a night when the struggles of dark days past become the reality of now, and the lessons learnt become tormenting reminders that nothing has ever been good enough, all the while with unhealthy doses of feeling like an ingrate because I’ve still got more than most. I live a privileged life. But the knowledge of being ineffective, insignificant and inconsequential in spaces more important than the rooms I can fill with insignificant others to fool myself into believing that I matter in all the important ways don’t just threaten to overtake me, they do.
Hamstrung. Vacuous. Fucked Up. I relate to the resonance of these realities more than anything else right now. I’ve mastered the art of giving advice to those that feel overwhelmed by life easily lifting them out of their doldrums all the while knowing that the same advice has rarely stood me in good stead. But it’s not bad advice. It’s good advice. But when I apply it in my life, it never yields the results I want, because those that I invite into my sacred spaces, my cherished alcoves, and my jealously guarded dreams seem overwhelmed by the cravings of my heart. Dismissed as an idealistic fool, a deluded romantic, a daydreamer, a dickhead…all for believing that the romantic inclinations we hold in our hearts can be realised if we just didn’t care about the ridicule of the fickle and whimsical consumerists that live their lives around self-centred bullshit.
The pit in my stomach digs deeper into my gut right now. No amount of food fills even this void. All this writing is starting to feel like self indulgent bullshit. The same self indulgence that I despise in others, and again I’m desperately fighting the urge to want to delete all this and stop trying to want to invite others into a space that remains devoid of acceptance. Sting. Burn. Even the familiarity of the tears induced blurred vision doesn’t offer a morbid comfort anymore. It only serves as a side dish to the hollow within.
I love the betrayer more than I love the optimist. Because betrayal has served to keep me grounded in reality each time the optimist has set me up for failure. It feels like I betray myself each time I hope…and that’s the fucking ironical dichotomy of a life fucking lived with conviction among a populace of cowards.