Life (and that other thing)

It’s funny how life (and that other thing) works out.  Just a few weeks ago I felt like I was going through a major emotional crisis.  I didn't know how I was going to survive another year without going back to Belize.  I was over my head with homesickness and with being in a situation where I had given up any minor level of control, authority, and social and financial security I had in my life to put myself in the role of the student.  I’d done all of this willingly, mind you, and put myself into exile, far from home and yet tortuously close in Trinidad.  I wanted, I suppose, to know how Dante felt, exiled from home and only having his writing as consolation.  But Dante didn't have facebook; he didn't have to watch the life he left behind go on without him; see all the things he was missing.  And what it freely amounts to is that I’m not half the man that Dante Alighieri was.  I think of myself moping then and I’m a little bit disgusted at what a little boy I was being, crying for home and its comforts but too pitiful to even actually cry.

Fast forward a few weeks later and I’m still just a little boy who doesn't know how to react to the news of his grandmother dying.  At least not outside my own head.  Inside my head there was a full scenario being played out, as there usually is.  The entire family would be present, except for me, and I would show up a year or so later, wandering a cemetery and completely unable to find her grave because I’ll simply have no clue where it might be, because I wasn't there to lower her into it.  Perhaps one of the simplest and most profound acts of respect a person can show another person: To bear the burden of their discarded body, to treat it properly and see that it is taken care of, to place it finally in a safe place, and to mark the spot and perhaps visit every now and again.  And I.  Wouldn't.  Be.  There.

Other scenarios played themselves out as well, including a visit from Mama in my dreams, just as she had done when I was smaller.  Only instead of stabbing me in the back of the neck with a hypodermic needle, she would be nice.  We would sit and chat; she in Spanish and I in English, and she would laugh and slap her thighs the way I never remember seeing her do.  But I can imagine it the same way I've always imagined the few moments before and after the image of her and her husband standing in front of the frame of what would soon be their home and the home of their eight children.  The picture that has hung on the living room wall for as long as there was a wall in the living room.  The one with the man with the same rakish mustache I have now standing next to a pretty young girl with a young girl’s unfiltered smile.

A scenario that hadn't occurred to me was there suddenly, miraculously being a plane ticket with my name on it, final destination: Belize.  And yet, here I am, writing from that concretely ambiguous location of the Miami airport.  The ticket wasn't miraculous exactly.  It hadn't appeared out of thin air.  My mother and I travel frequently and she happened to have enough air miles to get me where I needed to be.  It’s the getting back that’ll be the problem.  Money for that will come out of something; a credit card payment or my yet-to-be-paid tuition.  But there’s no point in worrying about that now.  The old two-way door is swinging, better for me to concentrate on making the most of it.

Mostly, I had given up on going to Belize because my reasons for going all seemed sop self serving and ultimately superfluous.  I was seeking the pleasure of old comforts and experiences, old friends, old lovers.  I told myself that I had practical reasons; I needed to lay down the groundwork for a career once I finished with school.  This is still true, but it wasn't the foremost thought on my mind.   I’d also decided that I would be foisting myself on my family, an act which I probably shouldn't rush into until the end of my third year, when I didn't have any other choice.  Now, instead of taking advantage of my family I’ll be required to fulfill my responsibility to them.  I've absolved my guilt through terrible circumstances.  The guilt is inescapable.

Tomorrow is not Promised to Beasts nor Men

4am from Janine Fung on Vimeo.

Muhammad Muwakil (Trinidad & Tobago) -- 4 AM

Things that I would say to you

Its so heavy.  My reality is so heavy right now.  I'm weighted.  Weighed down.  I feel like I'll never fly.  I feel like I'll never get to where you need me to be.  I feel like you'll never understand that. 

I've smoked all the cigarettes I had in the house.  Most were broken.  Some were wet.  All were your brand.  I don't smoke.  I don't have a brand.  You're my brand.

Don't roll your eyes.  I'm allowed to miss you.  I don't care what you have to say about it.  It was real to me.  It was worth waiting.  I didn't do all those things all those years to make you love me.  I did them because I loved you.  I love you.  I miss you.  I can't turn it off.

God I wish I could turn it off.

I've been trying.  I've been trying to replace you.  If I were any good at it, though, I wouldn't be drinking alone right now, smoking your cigarettes.  With your lighter.

I used to look up at the sky and imagine you, across the sea, looking up at the same sky.  I know you weren't now.  I know you're not.  You're fast asleep.  Probably in someone else's arms.  Am i really that easy to get over?

A million, billion stars.  I'm the only one looking up.

So back to this person.  This replacement.  She's not a replacement.  That is, she can't ever really be.  Too many bad habits that we don't share in common.  Except for one: living in the past.  Of all the things we share in common I wish we didn't share that.  I see her doing things I've been doing for a year now.  Its been several years for her.  How can I be with someone that makes me think of you?  Besides, it wouldn't be fair.  Not to her.  Not to me.

And not to you.  A good part of it is to get back at you.  Its someone you don't like.  But...that's a long list, aint it?

I'm sorry.  That was me being an asshole.  But really, you have to do something about your hatred for other women.  That can't be healthy.

And why do I even want anyone anyway?  Because you have someone?  Because I want to get back at you?  Because I'm horny as hell?  I don't need to like someone for any of those.  I've had the opportunity for something meaningless.  That's not what I want.

I just...I want to kiss someone.  I want to know that I'm still worth the emotional investment.  Not just to you, but to anyone.  And I want to know that I haven't lost the one.  That I can get by.  That I can recover and keep moving.  That there's something after this.

Shut up.  Don't say anything.  Just sit there.  Drink this.  Smoke this.  Just...be here.  Listen to this song. 

There's a shadow beneath the sea
There's a shadow between you and me
I've learned that love is scared of light
Thousand seeds from a flower
Blowing through the night

See?  Its about us. 

Your blackened kiss on my cheek
Your blackened kiss runs river deep
A stranded fish dear, i'm on the sand
Blue water from a pool
Up to the clouds i'll land

I'd really like to kiss someone.  Fuck, I'll settle for someone resting their head on my chest.  You've ruined me. 

Though i am dark 'bout the whys of wanting
Though i am dark, i'm still a child
Gonna dig a coal mine, climb down deep inside
Where my shadow's got one place to go
One place to hide.

Its such a relief to know you'll never read this.

Buss Up Yuh Melon!

A friend of mine asked me today 'How do you fall in love?'

Now, lets not get into how she decided i was somehow some expert on love, or falling into love, or even being able to express what that whole deal is like.  Lets just pretend that I'm not that fucked up.  That people can ask me questions.  Lets pretend that I know what the fuck I'm talking about.

Her: How do you fall in love?
Me:  Head first.

"Seriously, the answer is always head first.  Sometimes your walking along, quite cool, quite calm, and all of a sudden your foot hits something and BAM!  You're falling, head first, sprawling out, buss up yuh melon!  That's when you stop seeing straight and start talking all fool-fool!

"And then, sometimes, you stand there and you have to psyche yourself into it.  You stand there thinking 'Okay.  This is it.  I'm gonna fall.  I'm gonna lift my feet up and point my head at the ground.  I'm gonna break my neck.  I'm gonna knock out all my teeth.  I'm gonna eat so much sand and I'm gonna do it all on purpose because that's what love is.'

"Of course, this is hardly a pleasant prospect for any sane person.  But, remember, you're not sane.  You're considering falling in love, which means you're already thinkin' all fool-fool."

Today's the Same as Yesterday, Only Today I Know

So I'm single again. Officially. No, I won't be gorging on Ice cream. No, I didn't cry myself to sleep last night. I'm not a woman. And I won't be heading out to promptly bang every woman I can find. I am a man, but I'm not a stereotype.

I am, at present, eating alone. but I've been doing that for a while now. So how do I feel about it? Oddly...free. Relieved. And of course, guilty that I don't feel worse than this. Sadness has always been something I shrugged off. An emotion that doesn't really require immediate action. if any action at all.

But that was before Merri. Back then we'd both be sad for a bit, and I'd toss my lode into the pile of sadness that I generally ignored, and she'd still be sad. And I'd feel guilty for not being sad. Which would make my great pile of sadness impossible to ignore. There was a lot of crying in those days. Mind you, there was also a lot of undirected anger in the days prior to them. Had I not had that time; had she not happened to me; I'd have probably become like one of those that I now try to avoid. (Violent when drunk, Constantly spoiling for a fight, seeking sex filled relationships with women who don't seem to mind being slapped around every once in a while.)

Yesterday, upon reading her reply, I was sad. Quite sad. I was, however, also angry. Angry that this had to be done by email. That I had to be ignored to the point of outrage before she finally just told me. And what impotent outrage. A letter. A short story. A recounting of waking dreams as I calmly went about my day and pretended nothing was wrong. As if I didn't already know what was wrong.

I guess I'm still a bit sad, and a bit angry. but as I said, this has been happening for a while now. The only difference is I don't have to feel guilty about my imaginary accusations and doubts. And I don't have to feel guilty about fantasizing about other people as the memory of her voice, her face, her touch all fade. (That's a lie. How can I forget that face?) I don't have to worry about who's going to see me when I'm out with friends, smiling and looking happier than i ought to. And I especially don't have to feel guilty for thinking, "She calls me more than Merri does." I don't have to feel bad about liking this fact.

But that's still significant, isn't it? She calls? She calls...often for no reason. Perhaps, with this release, I'll be seeing more clearly now.

A final note: I think at the core of my relative un-sadness is the implaccable thought that...we'll be together again. We've circled one another so expertly in the past that I can't imagine we won't be together again in the future. i'm not counting on it, mind you. Not aiming for it. but I do believe it. Just like i know we were broken up before I was actually told, I know we'll be getting back together. I'm just waiting on confirmation.

You always know.

An argument with myself

Upon writing a poem that I'm still not brave enough to let the world know about.

Do I have to insert morality?  Whats the purpose of this exactly?

Its just a fantasy.  Nothing wrong with that.

But what does that say about me?

It says you have a penis and it talks to you.

Is it my penis that's been writing poetry all this while?

Your penis is a dick.  You're just the kind of guy that'll lend a caring ear to just about anyone.  Even if that someone is a dick.

A gate of ivory, A gate of horn

Once, back when Merri was still here, back when we regularly shared the same bed, I had a dream.

In my dream I was in the most perfect place.  A paradise I could hardly recognize.  And it was the perfect day.  I was leaving a tiny room through a plain wooden door and I stepped outside to greet the rising sun ambling skyward, steaming as it rose from the sea.  I dipped my toes in the sand, considered the hues of color in the sky for a moment, and began walking.  I still don't know where I was going, but I was alone.  And I wanted to find...someone.  Anyone to share this day with.  I was walking to her.

I didn't know who she was or what she looked like, but I did know who she wasn't.  She wasn't Merri.  This was an odd brand of guilt.  One flavored by elation, excitement and disappointment.  Not disappointment for my behavior or actions.  But...for being allowed to behave this way.  That doesn't really explain it.  I don't know if I can explain it.  For that matter I don't know if I should.  It was just a dream.

But after i'd stepped out into the perfect day and went out looking for her, I didn't really get very far since...she was already on her way to find me.

On her way to find me.

You might be thinking 'Okay, this is where things get hot and steamy.  He's gonna talk about breasts and penises now.'  Its not.  Sorry to disappoint.  We just sat, once we'd found one another.  Sat and chatted a bit, but I was still buzzing with the idea that she was looking for me!  The elation I was feeling in my dream-heart just talking to her was just as good as infidelity.

Especially considering the fact that every time I turned to look over my shoulder I would see Merri.  Sitting there.  Looking blankly, though not at me.  Never at me.  I'd call her name but she wouldn't respond.  We'd go on chatting, me and she, and every so often I'd look back at Merri to find...she wasn't all that concerned.  So...I thought...what else could we do?  Right here?  In front of Merri?

When I woke up she was on the far side of the bed and for the first time...first of many...our backs were turned.  I should have paid attention to this.  I should have paid attention to a lot of things.  But sometimes...you're so desperate to hold on to the good things, that you let the bad ones slide. 

Anyway, I was wracked with guilt.  I turned and pulled her to me, kissing her firmly awake.  I didn't tell her about the dream.  It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

***

That was ages ago.  Don't even remember the date.  But today...today I had the most wonderful day.  I haven't seen Merri in a year.  I haven't spoken to her in months.  People ask me about her.  I smile and give them old information.  I think about her constantly.

This morning I showered, and got dressed, in the bathroom of the tiny Hotel room Sean and I are sharing for the weekend.  I stepped through the green wooden door and onto the 'lawn' of the hotel, which is all sea sand.  The sun was already up.  The waves were sparkling under it.  A cool wind blew at me from nearly all directions.

I did go looking for her.  I'm loathe to admit it.  I feel so guilty.  In fact, i felt pretty dumb since she wasn't looking for me.  She wasn't even awake yet.

But she did wake up earlier.  And she had been looking for me.  Or at least she seemed to be.  She tends to talk in her sleep.  It might have been real.  It might have been just a dream.

An Argument that Never Happened

"Maybe we shouldn't do this."

You mean maybe you don't want to do this.  Based on nothing more than your own doubts, neuroses, and personal hangups.  Things that you search for so keenly in me because then you don't have to feel so guilty about having them.

"We're not going anywhere."

We've already come so far!  But maybe you're right.  I'm not willing to get hitched and get you knocked up so you can fulfill your dream of living without any clear means of supporting ourselves.  Sorry I wasted your time.

"I thought you would be the one to turn it all around."

And I thought we were meant to accept one another, faults an all.  I wasn't aware you needed fixing.

"I think I give up."  "I'm too tired."

Me too.  I don't know what else to do if "I love you" doesn't work.  If showing it doesn't work.  If I haven't convinced you by now, I don't know if I ever will.

[A dark day in January, 2009]
[Which is truly worse: The things we say to the ones we love or the things we only say to ourselves?]

Missing Mojo

I only JUST realized why my messenger bag was so light this morning.  I didn't have time to worry about it at the time.  I didn't have time to pack my laptop before leaving the house this morning, nor did I have time to root around for my cell phone or my wallet.  Yeah, its that kind of morning.  But just now, when I decided my time would best be used getting out more of 'Against the Light' as everyone's been requesting, I suddenly got a mental flashback of a cold-as-hell saturday morning spent in my mom's bedroom (the one with the TV) and getting up only to take both my journals out of my bag and scattering them on the bed throughout the day.

I also played the harmonica a bit.  Only I can't get the blues out of that thing for the life of me. 

So now, faithful reader, I'm afraid I'll have to subject you to an unrehearsed completely impromptu blog, complete with interruptions and train of thought derailments.  This sentence was an example of both.

I payed for my CUNY applications finally.  It feels like a huge accomplishment.  Or maybe I should say it SHOULD feel like a huge accomplishment.  I have no reason  to believe I won't get in there.  And school in New York would be...amazing.  I'd get to try a thing or two at the Bowery as well, assuming I don't pussy out again.  The prospects are exciting.  The same goes for Trinidad (because yes, after hearing about a $20 egg and toast breakfast in Barbados, I've settled on Trinidad.) and the Lyric Lounge.  I just...can't seem to summon the excitement.  Perhaps I won't feel it until it actually happens. 

There's also that other fear.  What if I never feel it again?  What if I've lost my passion and all that I have now is my current dissatisfaction and mere want?

Yeah, I've completely lost the train of thought now.  I do know one thing.  My love life (And being with the love of my life) hinges on me doing SOMETHING with my talent.  And that includes sharpening and keeping it honed.  So I'll write.  And I'll make a move.  And I refuse to get stuck here.  That's enough of a passion, I think.

The strong give up and move away.
The weak give up and stay.

Playing the Fool

I don't know if I should be thinking of this as the first day of my vacation or no.  Its a Saturday for one thing.  For another thing I'll likely have to go into work some time next week.  But the truth is yesterday was the last day of work.  I had it in mind when I played video games until I was sick last night.  I had it on my mind when I woke up this morning and wanted nothing more than to go back to bed.

But again...that might just be because it's Saturday.

I think the topper is the fact that I'm constantly reminded that its the holidays.  That makes it real.  The music is all over the radio, the ads are all over the TV, and there's the constant sound of firecrackers in the neighborhood that are liable to drive both the dog and I absolutely batshit.  It is unmistakeably, unavoidably Christmas time.  Free time.  And for me...alone time.  Just what I wanted all year round.  Right?

I should have been travelling by now.  I should have either been on a plane or somewhere waiting for a plane.  I should have ben with the woman i love.  instead i'll be...somewhere.  I don't know yet.  I'll think of something though.  I'll go mad if I spend Christmas in a house on my own.  i'll die if I do the same for New Years.  Maybe I can convince someone to go on a road trip with me.  Maybe I can go to Mexico or Guatemala.  After a dozen trips, I'm still not fed up with Chetumal yet.  And I've never been to Flores.

Flores sounds nice.  Merri would want me to go.

With my mind, I'd do better not to speculate about why I'm spending the holidays by myself.  My doubt and insecurity can only do me harm.  But lets consider this:  People say you can't help who you fall in love with.  I disagree.  You can help it.  You can resist.  You can even ignore the fact that such a thing as love even exists.  When we do fall in love, or more accurately, when we do the things that people who are in love do, we do so by choice.  And we do so knowing that we are taking a huge risk.  That we'll get our hearts broken.  That we'll make fools of ourselves.  That the other person isn't as honest, as sweet, as kind and wonderful as you've percieved them as.  But you take that risk because you love them.  And loving them makes you feel as if you're being loved.  Even if it turns out you're only fooling yourself. 

And its worth it.  Its always worth it.  How wonderful it is to play the fool.  How wonderful it is to pretend you're still by my side, and i by yours, and that nothing; not time or space or the influences of other hearts around you can even begin to touch that.  Afterall, there's no such thing as far away.

Get it out

Yesterday was not my best of days.  And although there was only one thing that really went wrong, it feels something like one of my worst days. 

Merri's back in Trinidad, after her many week trip to Europe.  I saw her online and got so excited I was almost overwhelmed.  What should I do first?  Talk to her, of course.  But what should I say?  There were a million things.  Too many to make sense of, especially since I still wasn't sure it was really her or I'd seen someone else and my desirer it to be her was so strong that it painted my perceptions.  My perceptions are notoriously gullible, you see.  And in particular, when it comes to emotions, it doesn't take much to pull the wool over my eyes. 

But it was her.  Certainly.  And if it wasn't, it was a good enough trick to be worth the embarrasment.  Most of all I had to give her the good news: That ne way or another, i would be seeing her this holiday season.  I would see her, she would see me, we'd both be happy people for it.  For weeks now I'd been playing out the scenario in my mind.  I'd be waiting, perhaps at baggage handling, looking nervously through the crowd of Christmas travelers for a familiar face, and she would weave through, unseen except for the brilliance of her smile, her skin, her radiant hair.  My heart would weaken, but my muscles would have to be ready because here she comes, leaping in to my arms.  I hold her to my chest firmly and we kiss brightly, both of us fighting back tears.

Yeah.  that's the kind of shit I think about.  At least, when i comes to her.  there's a constant soundtrack playing in my mind, mostly passionate strings in notes that reach the heavens.  The things I do or sa are much more mundane.  Much less impressive.  Its much harder to be romantic in practice, I think.  So, I open up the conversation with the most romantic thing I could think of at that moment: 'Hello my Darling.'

For long time there's othing.  An intolerably long time.  Long enough for the same mind that had us swirrling in an airport while the camera pulled away from above, to think the worst.  To see her seeing my message, and before she can respond she's playfully yanked back into bed by her other lover.

I don't take pride in thinking this way.  She'd probably scold me even doubting her.  But that's just what I think.

Eventually she does respond though.  She say 'Hey' and it makes my heart sink.  The conversation that follows is equally troubling.  The fact that there was a perfectly reasonable, acceptable excuse for her being aloof and distracted (She was likely tired having just gotten back home.  Likely frustrated with her mom and dad fighting.  Likely disappointed that I hadn't found some way to get in touch sooner, etc.) doesn't make things any better.  It makes them a bit worse, in fact.  We've become mundane.  Just something that exists in the back of the mind.  The ache in our hearts and the back of our minds has become so common place that we've forgotten about it.  Its probably not true, but its a possibility.

Its also a possibility that I'm the only one who feels this way.  Not knowing is the worst thing of all.

You win again, Burpy McGee!

I hate my coworker.

Well,  maybe hate is too strong a word.   In fact it m ay be, as my father taught me, to strong a word for any situation.  But she's not one of my favorite people.  She rubs me the wrong way, though, simply by being.  There's something absolutely infuriationg about the combination of her diminutive mania, her obnoxious brayings, her propensity to threaten physical violence, her complete lack of humility and etiquette, her refusal to display any sort of humility, and her unrestrained compuslion to share her oppinion on everything from politics to that spoonful of food you're about to shovel into your mouth.

But even more than, or perhaps because of, her many flaws, I find myself incensed by her values.  Her generosity is truly unmatched, and everytime she brings me breakfast the hungry tongues of flame that make up my disdain are subsued, but the embers of my annoyance glow white hot.  How dare you make me like you!

This morning she walked in the office and sat in her seat.  A few moments later the room became noticebaly warm, and I realized that , once again, she'd left the office door wide open.  My inner fire roared to life as I got up to swing the door shut with a slam, and i turned back, ready to tell her off...only to be immediately supplicated with cookies and corn chips.

This is how corruption begins.

Why we don't hang out anymore.

Everyday I can feel the gap between myself and what was once my contemporaries growing wider, and wider, and wider.  Some of it I don't quite mind.  Some if it is based on a different level of values and morals.  I won't be talking about the high priced modifications made on my high priced car anytime soon.  I was never the guy to laugh and quip and say 'Who, her?  I fucked her last week!'  I don't really want to go through a list of 'remember that time's.  I've done that too many times already, and the only thing it does is make even more clear the bitter fact that the good ol' days are never coming back.  And speaking of the good ol' days, I think the teenage under-aged drinking year saw me using up all my 'Get drunk and weep' encounters, and should have done the same for you.  Seeing my friends get drunk and lament tearfully now is just a good way to ruin a night, and for whatever reason I hold my liquor better than all of them now.

That is not a challenge.  Those days, too, are long gone.

But there are certain things that I miss.  It's a little strange but I miss being 'The New Guy'.  There's a certain fascination that surrounds The New Guy.  He's different, a little alien, but somehow manages to be cool.  And I'm not saying that I need to be cool.  I'm twenty-six years old, I've already discovered how to concentrate my cool into physical form, like my mojo.

What I DO miss is that certain level of open minded-ness posessed by those who witness The New Guy's strange brand of cool.  To do away with the confusing allegory and get right to the heart of it: There's some shit that I want to share with you, but you're just too damn resistant.  And I guess that's just a part of growing up.  You know who you are and you are resolute in it.  There's no space in you for new ideas unless its from self discovery.  Otherwise you're still that kid saying 'Me too' after the crowd has already agreed.  I understand.  I really do.  But I miss that.  More than anything else, I miss that.

Here's an example.  Once upon a time we swam in each other's musical eclecticism to the point that we'd put our conjoined names on mix tapes and CDs.  I dn't think I'd have discovered Portishead or; being an east coast fanatic; delved so deeply into West Coast Rap if it weren't for you.  Likewise, If it weren't for me, you might all still be listening to nothing BUT west coast rap.  And we'd do this by just hanging out, just relaxing in each other's presence, letting down our defenses, and letting vibes just flow, with music in the background.  Why don't we do that anymore?  I'll tell you why, because you are resolute.  And there's some stuff I really want to open your mind to, man.  We're not eighteen anymore.  Its okay to listen to music that isn't angry or depressing.  You don't have to hate Lupe Fisaco or Talib Kwali.  Mos Def is STILL cool!  You can even listen to music that doesn't refer to sex as an act of violence. It won't make you a pussy, I promise!  In fact, it'll probably be to your benefit.  The fact that you're above the age of thirteen and still have to think of your penis as a weapon, and still think of sex as assault. is another reason why we don't hang out anymore.

Further to the point, we are in the Caribbean.  Rap, rock, and R&B are fine, but that's not really us.  Its okay to listen to Soca and Calypso.  Listening to it doesn't mean your gay.  And if you're still unsure there are some guys from germany that'll blow your mind.

Music is just one part of why we don't hang out anymore.  The rest of the list is endless.  Well, that's not true.  The rest of the list mostly goes:

• Your girlfriend is always around.  Plus, I think she's flirting with me.
• I think you're trying to kill me.
• You beat women now.  You probably did then, but I know you do now.
• You only want to hang out when YOU want to hang out. 
  
• You never want to hang out when I want to hang out.
• You expect me to be your yes-man.
• I only like you when you're drunk.
• I really don't like you when you're drunk.
• I never really liked you.
• You're always drunk.

I think that about sums it up.  I really just wanted to talk about music though.

What's the last thing that made you cry?

Anis Mojgani at the National Slam 2005

A Sudden Spark

I do this thing online.  Its a game really, but its much more than just marbles or jacks.  It’s a world built loosely around a system of rules and structure.  I create realities, worlds, people and scenarios, and keep this imaginary, mostly fictional world spinning with nothing but the combined creativity and imagination of the players involved.  With that kind of strain; purposely exhibiting multiple personalities, emotions, even personal ideosyncrasies; its no wonder that we occasionally get burnt out.

Burnt out.  As in ’no fuel for the fire’.  That’s how I’ve felt lately.  Like I said, it’s pretty common when you Roleplay, and the solution is pretty much accepted and understood.  A player cries ’Burnout’ and everyone essentially says ’Go home.’  Go take a nap, or a week of naps.  Play with your dog, write a letter, go to the beach, watch TV, do something but get away from the computer and just recharge.  Simple as it was, it worked, at least for me.  You fell off the face of the internet and and came back a month or so later feeling good as new.  It works, every time.

But not this time.

I feel like its because my rest isn’t as restful as it used to be.  And no, I’m not talking about insomnia.  My sleep is so precious these days that I wouldn’t dare miss a moment if I didn’t have to, chemical imbalance or not.  No, I mean my downtime.  My time away from imagining.  It used to be filled with fun things, or at the very least, gentle, relaxing things.  I’d be too busy with work or pretending to be someoee else, so i’d write to remember who the real person was.  I’d absorb the good vibes my friends put out so I’d spend endless time with them doing nothing in particular.  And I’d read.  I’d read because i loved words, and loved the pictures they put in my head. I’d read the worlds these other writers had conjured up and i’d be struck with admiration.  I’d do these things until I fell asleep, and when I woke up I’d do them again.  And I’d feel whole after a while.

Now all I do feels like work.  If I write it’s because I haven’t written in a while, and I know i’ll be expected to say something at a show, so i’d sit and force something out of my head, squeezing and clenching my creative muscles.  If I go look for my friends its because I’ve been so busy doing other stuff that my relationships deteriorate into loose acquaintances.  I didn’t even know that my best friend had a near stroke until he was out of the hospital and chatting to me online.  I haven’t seen my friend’s or my cousin’s babies, and the latter is already four months old.  Organizing a dinner with friends is almost as difficult as organizing these Poetry Night shows, which is suffering as well.  And I only read because I’ve been reading the same book since the start of the year and I’m ashamed to admit it.  People say ’Are you alright?’ like I’m terminally ill or something.  The few close friends I have left come right out with it.  "You look like Shit."  Alexis said to me one night, which was disappointing because I was actually smiling that night.  I was happy.  Jubilant, even.  I haven’t been truly happy in so long.

My colors were faded.  I don’t know if everything went gray.  I was too busy to notice whether there were actually colors or not.

So I called Merri, in whom I confide all things (even the things I probably shouldn’t) and told her I was depressed.  I explained that it wasn’t a ’Toe in the shotgun trigger" depression, so much as it was a "What’s the fucking point" depression.  I told her I’d deal with it, and life went on.

and on...

and on...

and on...

At least that’s what it felt like.  At one point I’d confused motivation with worry, and realized that the headaches I had at the end of the day were from me furrowing all day.  Everything else was an obligation, and some obligations weren’t worth bothering with.  I did  I’ve been doing what I swore I wouldn’t do and, rather than bow out of certain responsibilities I simply left them hanging.  But I remain now, as I did then, numb.

There is hope though.  The other day I received a delivery for work.  Two servers that I submitted the specs for myself, and a 3000VA UPS and extended battery pack.  At first there was only the worry of how heavy all of it was, and how I’d find time to set them up.  Then, with the help of an unexpected friend I discovered that they fit almost perfectly into the Server Rack we already have.  As I stood there with this bahemoth of a machine in my hands and regarded all the potention 3 Terrabytes of disk space held, I felt a bit of a flutter.  It was a sudden and fleeting spark of happiness, and excitement, without any sign of anxiety.  It reminded me of when I first started working here, back when I still felt I could learn something, and when I reveled in the freedom being able to stay in the office as long as I wanted.  It was only a second, but it was so glorious.  I felt something for the first time in months, and it was unsullied by anything else.

So maybe there’s a light just up ahead.  Who knows.

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Also, just a few hours ago there was another bout of pure emotion.  This time Heartache.  Not ideal, perhaps, but it too lasted just about a blink long.  And it too was atypical in its intensity.  Maybe I’m not so numb afterall.