curiouslyrong's posterous

I’m tired, confused and sad. I mean, don’t get me wrong I understand, in the grand scheme of things these emotions are not peculiar and they are rather minuscule comparative to other people’s problems.

But, still it’s hard to move past the sadness that seeps into the car as you drive home after a long day. The fear, the twisting serpentine fear of failure that has slithered in your gut all day finally has a chance to feed on you in silence. 

Car radio off, windows crack you weave through the back roads. Hoping against all hope that the tears blurring your vision don’t distract you from being alert. A rushed and nonsensical voicemail left on a friends machine. “I, just…. Amy, I don’t get it. I know it’s selfish of me, but I don’t get it.”

I an give the best advice, I can talk you down, I can rationalize with you, muck through all your emotions, but can I sit alone with myself and tell myself what is best? Of course not. I still do things I shouldn’t, disregard the feelings of other because I am as moral philosophy explains, acting under the fundamental understanding that all acts are self involved. 

I curse to myself. I yell. I weep big crocodile tears that don’t suit my face. Why? Because, it makes me feel better. So that when I pull my car in the garage and walk those 20 yards to the house I won’t combust. I speed, taking corners of deserted roads too fast. I grip the steering wheel tight as I slow down. I gnash my teeth stuck behind people who are wasting moments of my life.

I am tired, confused and sad. I and tired of the long days, and the short nights. I am confused as to why I am not good enough for some. I am sad, because why do I care?

I care because no matter how evolved I believe I am, I am young, I am fragile. I am naive. I just want, at the end of the night someone to read me a story, tuck me in and tell me they love me. Okay, maybe I don’t want that. Maybe I want to strip off my clothing, grab a beer from the fridge and sit in bed staring at into the mirror on the wall. Maybe I want to some home and give my cat a kiss on the head, then fall asleep under the quilt but not the sheet. Maybe, I just want to fall asleep and wake up to do something more, something better, something great. 

Who the fuck knows. I certainly don’t, all I know is tomorrow I will wake up and put one foot in front of the other, giving myself moments of good, moving on from moments of bad, and patiently fighting for something more.

via tkw

neatness conjures nothing—forces nothing from the imagination.

The Poems of our Climate

 

I

 Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
 Pink and white carnations. The light
 In the room more like a snowy air,
 Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
 At the end of winter when afternoons return.
 Pink and white carnations - one desires
 So much more than that. The day itself
 Is simplified: a bowl of white,
 Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,
 With nothing more than the carnations there.

 II

 Say even that this complete simplicity
 Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed
 The evilly compounded, vital I
 And made it fresh in a world of white,
 A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
 Still one would want more, one would need more,
 More than a world of white and snowy scents.

 III

 There would still remain the never-resting mind,
 So that one would want to escape, come back
 To what had been so long composed.
 The imperfect is our paradise.
 Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
 Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
 Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
-Wallace Stevens