It's autumn, I know, as the days are full of somber blue-gray clouds and a firm and steady hand holding my head just below the surface. This morose sort of listless wondering at myself and at the universe consumes most every spare moment of my day. These are the times when I wish people could remember me for the person that I want to be. I'm not angry. I just don't know how to explain that every morning I wake up and stare at the ceiling and I remember that there is no where I want to be right now. It is so tiresome to explain to one's self daily that life doesn't end when the cold creeps into your blood and your bones and your heart. It is just a season, really, I know. Yet it is often the unravelling of every shred of sanity that might have existed were it not for my disastrously convoluted limbic system.
Still - it is interesting to note that despite an increased knowledge of body functions and neural processes I have so little control over any of it. Helpless, or hopeless, or simply at the mercy of my emotions. It really has been ages since I have had to feel so much. I try to be a muted version of myself. I try very hard. Most of the time, it works. I can't be this raw and function on a daily basis.
I want to be madly in love but I know (I just know) it would only end something like this:
Some day I would be left with nothing but a pile of jumbled words. They would look something like a love letter mixed with an apology but, mostly, it would be a long list of regrets. It would not be the verbal tethers or the agendas with chains - but we'd have always been islands and I would hate to really cross the bridge. I'd have all of this time for you trapped inside of the things I thought I had to do.
I have this vision of empty drawers - of vacant parking lots and perpetual nightmares about all of the things I meant to tell you before you left.
Lately I have spent some time discussing life on a smallish scale with the younger humans in my life. In a vain attempt to absorb some vitamin D - and perhaps remember that it is always the small things that are most important - an impromptu blanket gathering was held in the middle of the lawn. In what can only be described as pathetically hilarious british accents we dissected the nature of the lawn itself - weeds, grass, bugs and all. It would seem that the universe, when you are four, has very little to do with melancholy and very much to do with finding a four leaf clover.