While emo never became me, I have always been ample evidence that white boys sing the blues; in fact, we can even channel the foreign howl that comes with brokenness if lungs and throats and stinging eyes are pushed out of bed harshly enough. However, the past month has been the victim of such constant forward motion that these lips only had time for toe-tappers and show-stoppers.
But a boy falling through time eventually hits the bottom (or at least a branch), and my slap-of-arbor to the face happened last night. My first instance of sincere sadness/hollowness since my pride was shaken and my value tested 2 months ago. I understand the act of blogging in itself is detestably self-important, but there's something particularly selfless and shallow about this post as several of you have no doubt been "depressed" several times in the past month, and here I am, bitching about a rare instance. Ay, indulge me, lovelies.
I have been proactive about my life lately to the extent of dehumanizing it, removing the subjectivity of these baby blues, and leaving myself vulnerable to exhaustion and to the inability to appreciate all this green that burns around me. I have consciously framed my day-to-day in metaphor of "running the race"/ "playing the game." I have seen things as having rules neither divine nor scientific, and I have made competitions of kisses and words and the curves of backs. I thought this was a surefire plan to avoiding stagnancy, to avoid attachment (and thus pain), and to guarantee progress. But it is possible to do nothing but move and still do everything but get anywhere. This is the place in which I find myself- nauseatingly twirling in a swivel chair amidst a self-made tempest of vapid phonetics. I'm still just as insatiable as ever, only now I'm hopelessly confused, and I've thrown other sets of eyes into the mix. Need the path of a pioneer be so destructive? Isn't there a coast in which we stop and settle and make the world inhabitable again?
And will anyone else ever be enough or will I always resort to multiplying fractions of people?
And will I ever be enough, or will always I need to travel beyond the shores of my own body to find a place worth settling?
For now, I'm a wandering heathen, a hopeless Israelite in search of a Canaan that may just be story. But must I stop and rest for a spell in the sand while I deliberate north and south? Should I halt the caravan until I'm certain? Or do I follow an indecisive compass in hopes that one direction will outshine the rest, that West will be warm and forgiving?
Perhaps I should return to the yellow light, but the evening looks so green, and my fingertips feel so go.
Ack! Why must there be so many good people and right decisions?