Waiting...
I’m not awake enough for this crap. I’m in that funk-that-is-not-a-funk place right now, that Void, as Vani called it. It’s that place you reach when you’re going away and you don’t have enough to keep you occupied. And the things you could be doing are menial and mundane, and you’ll get to them later. Fun.
When I was going to Europe, I described the feeing as being split in half, part of me already over there, leaving a ghost of the real me stateside to tend to all the boring tasks and preparations. I took a lot more poetic liberties back then, I think.
Guess it’s the same feeling now, but my focus has changed. My motives are different. Instead of chasing love halfway across the world, I’m launching a preemptive strike against my own oblivion. I’ve felt for some time now that if I continue on the path I’m on, I’ll be dead within two years. Maybe not physically dead, but it might as well be that. Nothing left but an empty automaton. No thanks.
Damn, how dramatic, huh? I’m doing my best not to sound whiney and angsty and all those things that are so cool at sixteen but pretty pathetic at thirty-three. Just stating the facts as I see ‘em, I guess. But that doesn’t mean that what I say can’t come across the wrong way. I made a comment to Carly about how when I get back around Christmas, I’m just going to blink out of existence at the stroke of midnight, New Year’s Eve. A poor joke, I was merely saying that I had no idea what I would be doing after the end of the year, that’s all. But the look on her face was heartbreaking. Bah. I never said I consider the feelings of others before I open my stupid mouth and start talking, did I?
It’s just that, until a few weeks ago, I was pestered with a feeling I can only describe as doom. Doom in my life. An ending unlike any ending I’ve ever faced. Not only a close to this chapter of my life, but a close to the whole book. Jeez, that makes me sound suicidal, huh?
But I’m not. Not in the slightest.
As far as I can tell, this just means that I’m truly at a point where I have no idea what’s next. A total blank slate, a new book is beginning, et cetera, et cetera, blah blah metaphor. It’s strange, but I’m doing my best to welcome it without flinching too much.
This is all just a by-product of being free after years of a self-imposed imprisonment. I’ve been a rut for as long as I can remember, and simply can’t accept that this rut may very well be what my life is, despite the evidence. I think I can do better than that.
But I can’t make any vows save for this: I’ll just keep going, I’ll see what I can see, and with a little luck I’ll find something neat. No promises of reinvention, betterment, complete changes of attitude, words, words, words. No more “Gotta get my shit together”-ing, gotta do this, gotta do that. I am who I am, and who I am is who I always will be. God damn you if you don’t like it. And that’s that.