never text me nothin' but she wants to
tell me
she's not that hard to find
(Black Country, New Road - Good Will Hunting)
Can someone tell me if crying alone in the car on the way to work is the best or the worst time to cry? Please take it as rhetorical. I don't want to make it seem as if I need help. Even if I do. The only attention I want is sympathy. And I don't need sympathy. Doesn't help a thing really. So I've stayed quiet all day.
The counterpart to this was a literal title with metaphorical content. And now this is a metaphorical title with literal content. This is all real enough to be a daylog. Reads like it too, I'm sure. But it is topical, and it is relevant. And it does manifest almost like a sequel. Or an addendum. Or an elaboration. But the same concept applies - the dream doesn't let you hide. And I'm not, I'm not. And the dream doesn't let you turn away from the truths that is illuminates. And I'm...well. What I'm creating here is kind of dealing with it, right? Maybe? Maybe just making the best of a bad situation? Okay, maybe just an indulgent confession to the wind. Another excuse.
A friend of a friend took her own life a few weeks ago. I was visiting the friend when it happened. We'd talked...considered, going over to visit her during my stay. Hindsight is 20/20 but it seemed like she was reaching out in ways that she normally wouldn't. According to my friend anyway. I never knew her, or if I'd met her then I don't remember it. I can't imagine what her roomate/on-and-off significant other must be dealing with. I can't even imagine what my friend must be dealing with. I mean I'm even dealing with guilt myself from it that isn't even secondhand but fourth or fifthhand. She was a stranger. But what if we had gone over to see her? Might I have seen something? Would I have had something to offer? Might I have shined a light into what turned out to be some of her final hours? How do we cope with losing something we never had? Same as we cope with every missed opportunity I guess. With guilt. Unfair and deeply felt guilt.
But you have to accept patterns, likelihoods, genetics, handicaps, pre-disposition. You have to accept that not everyone will be given sustainable circumstances. You have to accept when someone has made up their mind. But what I find so hard to accept is that so often in order to end or lessen the suffering of one, suffering must be created for more than one. I can't say that I just don't want anyone to suffer, I know that's not life. I can't say I just want us all to suffer together, I know that's too real. I can't say that I don't want anyone to have to suffer alone, I know that this is everything. I don't know what I want. Just to sleep it all away? But I can't. I know there are people who want me to be a part of their life. Part of their suffering. Even when they won't say it.
St. Patrick's Day and I'm not Catholic. I'm not Irish. I'm not even festive. No I don't want to parade. I don't want to drink. I don't want an excuse to celebrate and I don't want to celebrate. Just give me an empty house. No music. No sports talk radio. No shuffling feet. No fixing and cleaning and rearranging things which don't need fixing and cleaning and rearranging, just to have something to do with your time. Just to act. In order to keep from feeling or thinking.
I swear to god, I feel like I need so. Incredibly. Little. And that I just. Don't. Get it.
Dreams can be kind of like poetry. Nobody gives a shit. Unless you're reciting a poem or telling a dream that's about the person you're telling it to. Then our curiosity can't help but be piqued. How are we seen? How might we transcend into art, or be interepreted in the subconscious? Or maybe dreams are more like jazz. As I explained earlier, it can seem abstract, complex, unapproachable. If you're not constantly inundated to the point that you can fluently decipher its language then what's the point? I guess it depends on your need for your gratification to be instant. Must you be spoonfed, as in Orwell, or must you marinate, as in Hemingway? Then again, maybe it's unfair to compare the relatability of Hemingway or jazz or poetry to that of another person's literal dream. One can't necessarily expect to learn anything from a dream except to learn more about the kind of person the dreamer is. So of course nobody cares.
But ok, I've been beating around the bush and I know it. Self-consciousness aside, self-indulgence aside, putting the entirety of the self aside. I'll tell you the dream.
I dreamed you were fishing in my backyard. You were with others, cousins? Uncles? Brothers? Friends? I don't know. There were 4 of you. I couldn't even make out anyone else's face, much less recognize them. You were what I saw. Thing is, you were standing on the north side of the pond. That's where all the thicket is. Uncultivated trees and vines grown wild, where beavers had done their most destruction over time. The absolute worst place around the perimeter to fish from just because of what it takes to reach that spot. Standing just past the edge of a swath of 8 foot high bramble. Casting lines. You were chatty, laughing, smiling. Content as can be.
I was gazing from the little window of the front bathroom. Maybe if you were alone I might have gone to you. Said hello. Gave a wave from the porch. Made my presence known. But you were with them, strangers to me, I'm sure you didn't see me. And so I accepted it, to not be seen. I took the excuse to stay within myself. I told myself I didn't want to intrude, that I wouldn't be welcome into your happiness. I told myself that I was happy enough just to see you happy. I stayed inside.
I'm sorry.
please know
that I'm just trying to find
some way to keep me in your mind
March (17), 2023