Coming home from work depresses me. Me, me, me; let’s talk about my feelings.
I trot, yes trot, down the street, heavy-heeled and frustrated. Maybe it’s that coming home from my work depresses me. Yes, it’s a job. Yes, it’s work. Yes, it’s somewhat corrupt. None of that seems to be as bad as coming home to an empty bed. Especially, when you know (or think you know) your coworkers aren’t.
I plunge into my large, California king-sized bed (inherited, as I myself would never subject myself to its purchase, know knowing the lonesomeness of sleeping alone on such a large bed).
My bed doesn’t necessarily have to be empty. I can fill it with empty vessels, but I choose not to. I also don’t necessarily have to be strung out on you; or, the idea of you, which leaves most of the men around appearing as seemingly empty vessels. My idea of you is dissolving as you become more familiar. Which, I might add, might re-evolve, on your accord. That’s where this may become dangerous. I hope you don’t show me that you are much greater than the person (already somewhat great, to the infatuation of) I have in mind.
All of this, mind you, is thoroughly enjoyed. Just when I have nearly lost faith in men, friendships even, I am reminded of what is.
Just that simple innocence where you are thinking about someone and the off-chance that they might be thinking of you, too. It's a thought that catches people off-guard and makes you ask yourself, what-the-fuck are you thinking? So, you question it, and yourself, and resurface only with the simple innocence of genuinely caring for someone you’re just getting to know. That’s the bottom line.
In some cases, that gasp of a thought outweighs your sensibility and your history of sanity.
I, myself, find myself drowning in my daydreams these days.
Thus, I am reminded of what is.
(former essay excerpt)
(who the fuck do i think i am, quoting myself?)
[[I am always searching for the bad, the evil, the negative, and the dirty. And, with that said, I am always coming up from under water with my head bobbing, because I am in some depths, waving what I’ve freshly found while trying not to drown, because ignorance is definitely that bliss they speak of that keeps us afloat and I mostly wish I was smart enough to be ignorant, nowadays.
One may think in conclusion to reading this that I have lost faith in trust and love, which above money and war, unequivocally seems to be the basis of how mankind continues on, through the treacherous waters. And on some days I think, I have, because I have lost the trust and love in myself on my worst days. But somehow, we all have this tick, this mechanism that allows us to forget, move on and bounce-back from, change and evolve what and whom we surround ourselves with. Thus, we fool ourselves and we do it all over again—we fall in love again, we kill again, we cheat again, and we cry again, because it is only the dates and characters that have changed, as we are naturally and consistently attracted to the same happiness, and misery, alike.]]
Closure is the absence of: vindictive behavior, first and foremost. I don’t want to demand closure by getting a haircut, tattoo and new beau in your brief absence, in attempts solely to undermine your departure. I believe closure, as hard as it may be to truthfully find, is just the absence of the actual circumstance (whether it be you, her, him) in mind. The exact becoming of closure, though usually uncertain, are the specific, lineal events that take place towards that aforementioned absence. These events tend to seasonally flake off, one by one, all while leading to a dearth you can never legitimately expect, nor demand, or else its validity would be marred.
That’s what I’m looking for, motherfucker.
I am falling in love with the way I feel when bad doors close and other doors are just doors. shiny, pretty, undiscovered doors.