Loneliness and the Inadequacy of Words

One of these days, I’m going to find true happiness, and this time it will stick. It’s not that I haven’t had my share of moments over the years, it’s just that I never found a way to make them stick, or gained the wisdom to accept them for what they are: perfect moments that by their nature must be fleeting, lest they consume one in a passion of perfection, normally reserved for the hearts of stars and star-crossed lovers. I doubt that I’ll uncover an answer within these thousand words, but there is always a chance that it may happen, nonetheless. Or maybe I will finally learn another lesson, one which allows me to somehow to stop dwelling in the past, and look toward tomorrow with something other than fear. It could be all of the changes lining up, despite how positive they may appear. I’m not really good with change, as I may have mentioned once or twice before. Sure, I can roll with the punches, and think upon my feet, but I’m not a fan of having to get myself out of my rut and making forward progress. Okay, I’m not sure that I meant to go so deep, but there it is: I’m scared of doing things to better my own life for fear that I might actually have a real shot at success. Now all I need is a large pile of money, and I can finally die happy.

Someone told me once that they didn’t know what the hell I thought that I was doing, that the life I’ve built around myself is naught more than a prison. In a sense, that person could not have been more on point. This isn’t a new theory floated within the confines of this blog: that there are two discrete versions of myself, locked in constant battle for my destiny. There is the part of my that grew up as an only child, in the home of a single mother, that wanted to wash away the failures of my father by being a husband and a dad. But in my moments of clarity, I knew that this was probably a great mistake. I’m not the type of man who is cut out to be a father, and I’m not the type of guy who should ever be a husband. I am selfish, and quick-tempered, strong-willed and terribly afraid. I am the guy who gives advice, but I’m not so hot at nurture. Was it a mistake to fulfill my obligations? Should I have just passed along my genes and run? This isn’t rhetorical. I’m teetering upon the point of crisis, and can’t stop myself from doing cartwheels into oblivion (side note: Cartwheels Into Oblivion should be the name of my new band).

All of this aside, I suppose that I could simply learn to take a bloody compliment. My ego will fill countless rooms and still yearn to spread into even more, but my self-esteem could quite comfortably reside within the envelope attached to a bouquet of flowers that the love of your life has received from someone else. Intellectually I crave adoration for the things which I’ve created, but I cannot believe a single pleasant thing which anyone might tell me. And if someone should dare to tell me that I’m pretty, or that I possess some qualities which might somehow yet redeem me, their words slide in between my ribs and cause my heart to cease its rhythm. I should probably look into therapy. This cannot be healthy. And yet… And yet, it is this self-hatred and introspection which flings me into the deepest recesses of the universe on my neverending search for truth, not that I’m entirely so sure why it is that I must know it. I want my life to have meant something, in the end. A child is an imperfect genetic copy which will imperfectly continue me down through the ages (at least until the madness becomes unable to propagate itself any further). My words, my rhythms, the act of etching myself, line by line and inked with blood into the social consciousness, that way lies the true path to immortality. But then again, who wants to live forever?

All of this, for just a single passing moment where I dared to let myself feel happy.

I’ve decided that I’m going to be happy. I honestly have not a clue as to how I’m going to make that happen, but I want this coming year to be the year when I finally pull it all together. I want to write my book. I want to know exactly what it is that I truly want. I want to stop hurting people because I am unhappy. It is no one’s fault that I am who I am, at least, for the purposes of this endeavor. What is it that I truly want? And who, exactly is it that I want to be? I’ve kept my most self-destructive impulses in check, which I suppose has been a good thing, but I haven’t accomplished anything which I always dreamed of doing. It goes back to being right or being happy, I suppose. Then again, I’m usually never happier when I’ve proven someone else wrong.

A thousand words of insight, and yet I’ve said not a single bloody thing. Just me spinning round and round in a circle, covering the same ground which I’ve been covering since I began to pay attention. I think it all boils down to the fact that I am lonely. I rarely speak to any of my friends (though I’m not up to it right now), and my family life has just become some sort of endless routine. For all that I am loathe to change, I am practically screaming into the night for something new to happen. I want to know the answer. I want to know the right thing to do. I want it to be okay.

I want…

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