TITHONUS' DIARY!!
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more dlin... no, that doesn't work... I'm drunk and maudlin and writing in my online diary in the middle of the night. It's really not a good way to be. But it doesn't last forever. Like any feeling, it comes and it goes. - I got over that whole sex-crazedness thing. Again. It'll come back again sometime. And then it'll go again. - I don't know how to express what's wrong. I've had a very unproductive day and obviously I feel bad about that. I went to a party tonight that I'd been looking forward to and just when I was starting to enjoy myself my bete noir appeared, attached himself to me like a limpet, and of course from that point on it was just a matter of staying the minimum polite time and then making a discreet exit. So that's something I have cause to feel bad about. But it's not really that big a deal. - I think I feel a kind of despair because... because I've found an accommodation with my sorrow and found a way to live, a way to be, and I'm sometimes sad and sometimes happy, I'm... cured, you know, as far as having major crippling depression goes, I've done it, I've found a way out. But there's no... the door didn't close behind me when I found the way out, and the reasons I went in there are all still out here, if that makes sense. - Look, take for example this whole relationships business. In the past week I think I've had, what... three different girls ask me out to dinner? I mean, right, I'm a hermit, I virtually never get out, that's pretty good going, wouldn't you say? And in terms of having someone around, someone to talk to and cuddle and sleep with and listen to me talk about my problems and give me a chance to display my extraordinary close-listening skills, any one of them would be great. I'd love to be with any of them. But. I can see the end of the line from here, in all three cases. It would get ugly. I'm so lonely and heartsick and yet I believe that doing anything about that loneliness would make me a monster... I am a monster. I'm not a monster, I'm just an ordinary human being, just like thousands upon thousands of philandering liars... that I want to be better than. I'm not better than them, but I want to be, which means I'm good at convincing other people that I am, which makes me worse than them. I am worse than them. At least that sleazy guy down at the pub is obviously just a sleazy guy. He isn't going to trick you into thinking he's a perfect gentleman, that he's Peter Parker, that he's "nice". Gah. I am nice. I'm just not perfect. And I'm not willing to ask for perfection because I can't offer it... that's not it. I don't want perfection. What I want is lots and lots and lots of solitude, but not total solitude. Lots and lots and lots of time, but not forever. - And if I got that, I'd probably start wanting something else. This is just life, isn't it? It ends but you have to live it as though it doesn't, otherwise it's already over. You want something and then you get it and then you change your mind and start over again. - I want something divine. I want to feel that I am groping my way towards angels, not just... running on a treadmill waiting to reach the end. And sometimes I do! Sometimes I know that there really is something more, I'm so certain that the angel is whispering inaudible words in my ear... but not right now. Right now all that counts is right now. - Did I mention I'm drunk? - See, I'm like this all the time. This mad stream of thoughts, rolling and tumbling haphazardly over the top of each other... this isn't a tenth of the actual stuff I'm processing. I don't know how or why the things I'm writing get chosen out of the writhing mass. But I find it hard to bear, hard to be, and it's even harder around someone else because I have to hide it away... would it help if I didn't? Would it make it easier or harder to bear being around me? Such heights of paranoia I'm able to acheive... and justify. - There's a story in one of R. D. Laing's books about a meeting, he's talking to a group of psych doctors who work in an asylum and says something like, "many of the patients here aren't really mad, they just have an unfortunate inner feeling that life is meaningless, worthless... they're just trying to come to terms with what that feeling means, how to live with it..." and afterwards one of the doctors comes up to him and says, in an excited rush, "You know, for years now, that's exactly how I've felt, but I thought I had to keep it a secret, I thought no-one would understand if I started talking about it..." and the thing is, Laing can see in this Doctor that as he's describing this feeling of emptiness then there's a light in his eyes, there's a passionate interest in being able to describe his psychological condition, and as he describes it then he alleviates it. Which is to say, he becomes passionate, interested, involved, engaged, loses himself in the moment. And there you have it, life is good! Life is a miraculous gift in those moments, when you care about something... whether it's good or bad. But then you lose it and try to get it back through hollow posturing... Why am I relating this story? Ah, because it's precisely my problem. My gift, too. I am passionately interested in things that... most of the time it seems that most people don't give a fuck about. And so I don't talk about them and so I end up feeling stifled and depressed and... act like I don't give a fuck about anything either. And if I could just believe that other people were in the same condition... then I would have a wonderful way of waking people out of their indifference. But, I don't trust them. I don't trust myself. I don't know what the difference is. I think that's probably enough for one drunken ramble. - "I feel like I'm sleeping Can you wake me? You seem to have a broader sensibility" - Joni Mitchell - "Did your dreams die young? Were they too hard won? Did you reach too high and fall? For there is no rest For the ones God blessed And he blessed you best of all" - Richard Thompson |
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