Melodrama

One more post for the day...it's something I wrote a week-ish ago. Apologies where needed for the language.

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One of those days. Not the kind where you’re saying “Fucker!” every five seconds, nor the “I’m so upset because of ____” kind. Just the deep-inside-yourself sadness, the kind that lets you know how far behind you are in analyzing yourself, how little time has been spent nurturing the narcissist in you. No journaling of minute and seemingly insignificant feelings, emotions, and psycho-analyzed cognitions for awhile; this tends to sometimes drop one off on the edge of a cliff, the day you’re left facing the sad parts that previously dripped away unnoticed (or at least noticed only briefly before being capped and stored on the “to be written about later” shelf). Then you think of just how many songs you could have written about all of these…things, should you have been so disciplined to remember that you have a creative and pleasurable by means of personal expression section of your brain, fingers, toes, cells. Probably could have painted them, too; poetry, drawing, fiction, photographs? All expressions that don’t get expressed because one is too busy playing out the hero complex that ties knots in the directives of our passion. Is it passion when other things important to humans get laid to the wayside? When you forget about yourself, about the fact that maybe you could be important enough for someone, anyone, that one you haven’t yet met, but any day now…

So what do you do when you finally realize (again, and then again) that you have no one to share your soul with, to any personally satisfying extent? You turn to the computer screen, of course. And away the words flow, from feeling to cognition to fingertips and finally onto fake white electronic paper. And somehow that odd and indescribably ironic medium makes you feel better. It’s out. And while that organic, human, raw orifice seemingly meant to eat up your words, your heart, yourself, doesn’t seem to exist and is temporarily forgotten to the detriment of searching, that fake whiteness collects it all, treasuring what couldn’t be shared with others and assuring you that it understands, that it can absorb the pain for now. Okay, go ahead: soak it all in. Because my heart in the moment is too heavy to not release the molasses-thick sorrow of it all. And then when it passes I’ll have you to thank, the surrogate mother of my unwanted and troubling burden.

Melodramatic is the flavor of days like these, and maybe we’re allowed to be actors once in awhile, playing out the certain seriousness of our never-before-experienced, once-in-a-lifetime brand of loneliness. And while it tastes bitter to others (and to ourselves?), sending us inward to escape that awful twisted expression of the person who never desired to put that taste in her mouth, we still admittedly want others to savor it, to somehow validate that the flavor is allowed to exist for you too. Because even an unwilling audience may be better than no audience at all, no room left for complaints of being unheard.

What is it that sometimes draws out that unspoken, green-tinted devil that makes us secretly if only momentarily despise our dearest ones when we hear of the joy (and joint pain) they experience that we somehow convince ourselves we deserve more? Strange that we would want their pain, but it signifies the intimacy, the depth, the substance and magnitude of the bliss that caused that pain.

So maybe we are narcissists beyond measure. Wanting it all for ourselves, wanting the ceaseless validation, thinking it’s all about being heard, being loved, just being…