Sick

I am sick of everything. I can feel my life dripping away, day by day, and I can't escape it even for a moment. I am sick of everything I do, everything I say, everywhere I go. But I have nothing else to do, nothing else to say, nowhere else to go.

All the things I am sick of I cannot stop doing or rid myself of. I cannot seem to fix anything. I cannot stop doing the things that are bringing me pain; I cannot stop my fingers from clicking the links, my mouth from saying the words, my head from spinning, crashing into confusion. Whenever it seems a small shaft of light is entering my life, it is quickly extinguished. I am not blaming anyone else for that. I know how good I am at snuffing out small flames.

Inside, deep beneath the clothes of the day to day, I believe there is something bright and wonderful; sometimes I believe that. Who wouldn't believe it? If you cannot muster any faith at all that you are good inside, you are done.

And I do believe I could be happy. I just don't know how. I do not know which step -- when so many are false and lead deeper into the quicksand -- is the first on the path to feeling well about it all.

I have become so sick I can scarcely even write. I can only whine sixty words a minute, turning the boredom that is drowning me outwards.

***

I was thinking of people who have come and gone. I didn't want them all to go, and it's no use pretending that I did. As so often, pride is a distant second to the truth; although pride hurts less, it costs more. But what can you do? Sometimes I wish I could reach out to the people I cared for once, so that they would still be a part of me. But when you do, they do not always reach back, and you are hurt twice: first by letting them go and then by trying to have them back.

It is worse though when what there has been has become something else. I must once have loved Mrs Zen. I still feel I do. But I can't find anything in her that is loveable. It is as though life has bent her so far out of shape, she cannot unwind herself to be the person she once was. I know I played my part in that. I don't kid myself that I'm the most fun person to live with. I suppose you have to know how to benefit from knowing me. What benefit can I be to a simple person like Mrs Zen?

What benefit can I be to anyone? I do not even know if I want to be. I do not have any views on what I want. I think that is the worst you can feel: void of ideas, void of needs, void of wants. I have simply surrendered them all as pointless. (Of course, I still want things: CDs, books, that sort of thing; but I am talking about meta-wants, big wants, what-you-want-from-lifes.) What is the use of wanting someone to enjoy the music I enjoy if I never meet anyone like that and never will? What is the use of wanting someone to watch the football with if no one I know even likes football? What is the use of wanting anything if you spend your days in a dark room?

All I am left wanting is someone who wants me for me, who wants to know me because it is good for me, not because they think I have something they want. Not like 1, who wanted me to stop burning but didn't bring water. Not like 2, who wants me to be entirely imaginary when I'm all too real. Not like 3, who wants me to be exciting but offers me nothing in return. Not like 4, who wants me to be too much, when I am too limited to be very much of anything at all. I want to be touched, not used. Does no one know the difference? Or do they know it, want it but not think that it's something I would want too?

posted by Dr Zen @ 7:45 pm