In times of turmoil, as we go about our day and the rollercoaster of empathy/ignorance, I wonder how we do it. In a way this is similar to how we navigate grief, how we cling tight to lost loves and memories yet conduct ourselves in such a manner that the outsider is oblivious.
I don’t understand the world. I don’t understand how people live with all the things that happen. There’s an endless despair that occupies a significant portion of me and I carry it around like a ball and chain. Sometimes I think I can’t maintain the façade anymore, that I just want to scream and cry and yell and say all the things I don’t say. Some nights I ache to send a letter that I never write and fear I’ll never have a chance to say beautiful things to you.
It’s interesting to me how love is so much a part of my despair. I can’t think of despair without acknowledging love. I cannot love without the cold hand of despair on my shoulder. Life is strange and its strangeness festers and chafes.
There’s a cacophony of unspoken words in my body. I can’t translate them, nor do I know just what they want to say. There’s also a deep well of gratitude and longing that either quell the anger or sing in unison with it – a song so ugly that it is gorgeous in its pain. With so much time wasted or, if not wasted, spent evolving and coming to consciousness, there’s an added layer of urgency. I think the urgency tends to frighten the other parts because it places so much pressure on them. Hurry, hurry. Speak now. Write now. Become, be, change minds, speak up.
I can’t get over the irony of the terribleness of this year culturally and politically and how good it has been to me personally. On the one hand, I’m healthier and stronger than ever. On the other hand, some days are so awful out there that I watch in horror as the world burns and more injustices rise up to tower over all of us.
Conflictions. Confusions. Paradoxes. Incongruities.
Writers I admire are often masters of metaphor. I lack metaphors, and I have misplaced the fire that flowed through my fingertips. I’ll be okay, but my point is that the way I keep going is through reading and thinking. I read your things and I grow stronger. Other days, I hold tight to the loves I have and I ache for the loves I’ve lost. I want you to know I still think of you and I’d give anything to hear from you again. I know I’m rambling now, but what is today’s writing but split, confusing, nonsensical. Logic has been demoted and in its place, contradictions and emotions. It’s funny how I sought to elevate emotions and decried the imbalance of reputation in logic over emotion. Now we shun facts, ignore truths, emphasize insults. How little I knew back then. How little I know now.
These words are for you. Hidden within them is the pain I feel of missing you. Between the lines I’m urging you to come back. What I’m not saying is that I don’t know what I’m trying to say or how to stop saying nothing.