Most of my life has been spent wishing for better days, but as the sun rises and sets, or so it seems to from our gravity-anchored perspective on this little blue planet, I'm finding that these days are pleasant enough to live in the Right Now.
Scratch that, white out and erase that. These days aren't pleasant. They're a dream. If this is what happiness is like, why on earth did I spend so many nights buzzed and about, holding insomnia's hand like I needed help crossing the street? Oh yes, because I'm an idiot. Still am, but now I'm an idiot who's fallen into a pile of luck stacked so high a leprechaun would shit its pants.
My god! Why is it so hard to write about happy things? Give me a breather from my mind, a good bad breakup, and a series of unfortunate events then just sit back, watch how I could light up the sky with words, words, words, pages and pages of misery and verbal vomit. Or speach diarrhea. Never shutting up or stopping the flow of puke and shitty ideas. Endless jibber jabber of how my mind is rattling around and my mood swings lower that the crotch on MC Hammer pants (because oh of course, those are the most important topics, lend me your damn ears). But no, not now. No happy fun time ranting and raving and reviewing. I'm left speechless and dumb with joy at the thought of this person who thinks of me too (I think he does, he says he does, exercises in trust breathe in breathe out). Should I live in the now, or complain instead? Hard choice, considering right now I'm trying so damn hard to write anything worthwhile. But who needs art and creative outlets when instead I could turn my faucets on full blast and spill onto his skin, drip drip drip down to the floor and puddle at his feet. I've never felt less of an urge to be creative and I'm not worried at all. But here I am, still typing it out. For that, my friends, I can't offer any explanation.
Don't you hate that narcissistic feeling you get when you read through what you've written and you realize your sentences and paragraphs all start with 'I', 'I', 'I'? For someone with such low self esteem, there seems to be much too much wind blowing through my own sails. But it doesn't just stop with punctuation, the thoughts continue on to bleed into every aspect of who and what my life is. Say, with this here, this happiness I've somehow found myself in possession of. I trust the world and Mother Earth and the deep rumble in your voice when you say you love me one last time before the night's scheduled unconsciousness whisks you away to DreamLand, but I don't trust my own hands to hold a glass without shaking. Tell me then: how can I trust them to hold this all together? I'm watching myself from my own peripheral vision, whispering over and over, don't fuck this up. Don't. Not this time. Don't fuck this up for me, me.
"I may be a fuck up, but I'll be damned if I fuck this up" is the daily chant, recited in front of the mirror. Though maybe this chanting isnt the best idea. It doesn't sound particularly encouraging, nor anything like a victory lap around and around my past, haha, I've found a good one and I swear I'll make it work. That sort of thing, not that sort of thing. The ritual might actually summon my fuck-uppery. Backfire on me, and I don't think there would be any points for trying then.
Ever feel like you're flying too high and just realizing it drags your ankles to the ground? The fuller I feel, the more worried I am that these thoughts will turn to lead and drag me back to the bottom of the ocean. Wouldn't that be a chore for my eyes, already poor from genetics, to adjust from the sunny bright atmosphere of the Big Bright Up Above back to the bathypelagic zone? I don't think they'd be able to do it, if they're as lazy as the rest of my body. And the worry of that threat, and the worry of me ruining things... well wouldn't you know it? My feet are stuck in the mud! That was fast.
Things are going too well. They have to be. Things this good/great/golden can't just be! What if this headfirst fall into bliss ends? What if we're just racing to the end of my personality and when we cross the ribbon he realizes there's nothing else? Just stares into the big wide open empty spaces within me and hears himself echo off my ribcage? Then what? I am tensing all my muscles in the vain hope that something this good can be sustained, cursing my inability to be anyone else or better than simply me, and thanking my lucky stars that I am carrying a baton with such a lovely human being. He truly is. A human being, flaws and pores and all, and lovely.
There are many things I want to say about this, him, but I'm not sure of the exact spelling for this stupid smile on my face.
I'll continue on more when I'm more miserable, or find something better to say or find a better way to say what I want to. I'm not used to articulating positive feelings, so excuse the dip in my already low standards of output. Say what you will about anxiety, at least it gave me something to write about! Or at least, the almost ability to. I think the problem is that I now have someone to blow wind into my sails when I am in need of a breeze, a task I used to have to do myself. With all this rest for my lungs now and the lack of hyperventilating, I've stumbled upon the horrible realization that my mind isn't all it's cracked up to be. I mean, I always knew it was cracked, but now I know that without oxygen deprivation, it's really not all that special (with the last few paragraphs/wastes of time as your examples!) And so, here. Take this shitty post and leave me to bask in my happiness for as long as I can.