Archive for the 'Sleepless' Category

Infinity, Minus One.

Limits. Breaking. A little more tape, and some glue and I think I can stand another run. Fake being alive. Holding myself together and pretending the cracks are not there.

I can’t tell if it is dusk or dawn or if my orbit has shifted ever so slightly that I never noticed the light fading and the warmth dissipating fractions of a degree at a time until I’m in the arctic circle again, wondering how the hell I got here and wondering why I’m so fucking cold. Empty. Dizzy. Paralyzed. Staring down at my feet the entire time I’m wandering around looking for answers. Looking for reasons. Navigating my life by the cracks in the concrete. Looking for meaning and validation as a person, as a man, father, husband, worker, dreamer. I keep running into the same obstacles. I keep cutting myself off and tripping myself up. If it was raining hope outside, I’d run out there and suddenly have an umbrella to stand under. Nausea. Vertigo. I’m stuck in an infinite loop fixated on my feet trying to keep my balance. Working way too hard to make sure I’m stepping in the right place so I don’t crash all the while wondering where the right places to step are, as if making a mistake will cause the universe to crumble. Paint over the mistakes; put more glue in the cracks. All I see are my feet, occasionally catching her reflection in the water I’m trying to not drown in, mistaking what I see for reality. My emotions and thoughts spin constantly. Unstable. Circles. Circular. Cyclical. Dead. Fight scenes and games play themselves in my head making me wonder if anything is real. Comparisons torment my self confidence.

Not all parts of the loop are bad. It’s nice when my orbit takes me around the sun and I get lit up and thawed. Moments like those are addicting and invoke ill-fated endurance and stamina, perpetuating the cycle and in the shadows it’s cold and lonely. Behind the light of the moon and falling through space without any sense of direction or sense of being makes me sleepy. The stars are a blur and they feel so far away. Hopeless, tired, worn out and contemplating letting it all go. Hoping I get lost. It takes all I have to hang on lately. The hardest thing to do is wait for another revolution for my time in the sun, my blip on her radar; to wait for the warmth and the embrace and the kisses like drops of light on my face. Giving up, walking away and drowning in the muck and the mire and the mundane and the deafening silence seems better than waiting for just another moment of peace, fleeting awareness and the stifled affections of brilliance. Come on, baby, play me somethin’ like, “Here Comes the Sun.”

Too many times I tell myself, “This time around is different. Nothing’s gonna get me down. Nothing’s going to own me and make me feel the way I hate to feel.” And I say that after every time I end up feeling the way I hate to feel. Torn between my untapped potential with access to the power of creation at my finger tips and the despair that conquers in the gaps between the ways I feel around her. It is so hard to love her, and it is even harder not to. Her smile melts everything. Her presence invigorates me and kills me. If I’m lucky enough that she looks at me, like, really looks into me, my insides ignite and sparks light me up. And I’m in stasis anxiously waiting for it every time. Paralyzed. Impotent and disoriented. After more than a decade, she still lights me up. With one look, she can wake the slumbering super hero in me, or rip me into a thousand tiny pieces. And yet, here I am swearing again that I’ll not get down like this. That I’ll not let her make me feel like this. As if I’m some how feeling empowered enough to expect a different orbit, to create a different orbit, or like now I deserve a different orbit. As if she even knows what she does to me.

Trying to find that line separating love, devotion and self-deprication from worship.

How do I break my own infinite loop? How do I shift from a love-sick, paralyzed robot short-circuiting in my own heart vomit hanging on her every motion hoping soon that I might catch a brush of her hand that I can pretend was intentional, to a man with a mission, with a rock-solid purpose and a shit load of righteous passion and the means to act on it? How do I transform into the man she wants and needs instead of this poor chunk of dead drift wood I feel like I am most of the time?

I caught a glimpse tonight up on the mountain. It’s a simple solution. Too simple. It’s so simple but it takes effort and thought and dedication and all things not automatic. At least not yet. You see, I have to look up — lift my gaze higher than the circumstance in which I’m trying to keep my balance. Scan the horizon and realize that where I am is precisely where you want me to be and there’s so much more to where I am than fixating on my own attempt at not crashing. I need to look up and see where I can go, see where you are pointing for me to go. I have to open my eyes wide enough to see that I’ve traded the truth of you for a lie: there’s more than her in my view. I need to let you lift my chin up to see that the light I’ve mistakenly called her is you because I’ve placed her in front of you, again. She can only reflect your light — anything else will burn her up and leave me frozen, lost in the deep of space.

I’m sorry.

Amusement, Parked.

Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Life goes through cycles, just like the trip-hop I’m currently streaming. Repetitious. Revolutions with no sense of revolution. Loops and aural vertigo. And each new spin brings subtle changes which build upon the previous one or discontinue something else, fading it out. My current iteration brings something new for me. I think. It seems ghostly familiar, but it dissipates like a dream when I try to pin it down. Déjà vu. I feel like I’m stuck at a high RPM in a minimalist trance composition. A broken record. The droning, endless BPM is killing me from the inside out. Where is the piano kissing me with the words my soul longs to hear?

This all started a few weeks ago. Maybe it was a couple months ago. I don’t know. Maybe it was always there and I’ve just been in denial about it. Anyway, not too long ago, I casually asked a friend: Do you ever have days where you’re just not amused… by anything? “Hmph… yep, everyday.” she replied. Genuine. Smart Ass. Empathy laced with a twist of sarcasm, and a boat-load of cynicism. Somehow that seemingly insignificant question, an escaped convict of my mind now out running rampant through my soul, has not left me.

I cannot stop thinking about why my amusement is broken… I’ve no clear answers, only broad-strokes, superfluous themes and dusty stage props which, individually, don’t seem to matter; but added up they somehow account for this rift I’m falling into, or climbing out of.

I keep trying to either “fix”, or ignore this feeling. But it rapidly became the giant elephant in the middle of my room and I’m walking around pretending it’s not there while also being very well aware of its presence so as to be careful to not disturb it.

Sometimes to fix something, you have to rip it completely apart and rebuild it. I think this is one of those times. It’s messy and exhausting. I feel like I’m breaking and I need to get back to the opposite of breaking.

So for now, I’ll try leaving my amusement parked, over there, in that space on the side of this road while I step aside and try to catch my breath. A little time looking in from the outside might help. I hope so. Losing my amusement feels like burying hope under six feet of realism. Feels like dying… hmm… maybe that’s what seems familiar. Vague, I know. Melodramatic, yeah, I know.

Take A Number

My head is noisy tonight. It’s about 1:00 in the morning tomorrow. Too many pieces of words and sentence fragments floating around. Lots of half thoughts and shards of things that might have been considered ideas at one point. I can’t sleep. I mean, I can fall asleep but that sort of feels like giving up. I’m having a hard time right now. I’m not ready for today to be over. I’m not ready for this weekend to be done. I’m not satisfied at all with my day this life and I don’t want to spend the last handful of moments of what was supposed to be an amazing weekend lying in bed feeling worthless, unsatisfied, stupid, neglected, and angry. Hopefully writing this all out will solve one of two things: either kill these garbage feelings clogging me up, or tire me to the point of exhaustion… to the point when sleep becomes non-negotiable.

“I’m sorry I’m not who you want me to be.” She said unapologetically as I stepped back in apology, put my hands in my pockets and fell apart inside. Those words flowed from her lips flawlessly. She continued to climb out of the car without my help. She didn’t need it. I didn’t think she did. Where I come from, a man offers to help a woman out of respect and adoration. Out of delight and a sense of protection. She’s so capable to do anything on her own. Maybe she doesn’t know I think that. Maybe she feels trapped. Her words seemed to come out of no where, rehearsed almost, as if she’s been thinking about something for a while. I can’t stop thinking lately that I’m holding her back. I know she loves me. I just wish some days to feel… well, different than I do right now: like I’m her safe harbor, but not her adventure.

Who the hell do you think I want you to be? keeps spinning through my head, shredding all the other thoughts into pieces of words and sentence fragments. Breaking things that might have been considered ideas at one point. Autumn spirals and winter is inevitable. I’m locked out. I have a key, but I’ve no idea where the door is. The sky was crisp and black as velvet; the moon is hibernating. Yesterday’s snow still covers everything. I didn’t notice how cold it was — I was too busy trying to gain my composure. A bomb just went off in my face and I had less than a minute to clean it all up before we went inside to the party.

Yesterday was our anniversary. 11 years. 4,017 days (including Leap Days) of life, laughs, tears, joy and pain and everything else together. The day started off so relaxed and peaceful. I love those mornings when we stay in bed just a bit longer holding each other when we are both awake. I love the warmth the blankets have been storing all night and the way her hair fills the air with its scent. The way her skin seems to glow from the inside out making everything just a shade brighter. She is my adventure. Somewhere though, before we went out, after we spent the day reminiscing, she got lost. I don’t know where she went. Maybe she was already gone. The past week or so she’s been oddly distant. Preoccupied. I know she’s got a lot on her mind. I was hoping she could press pause for just a while. I don’t think she looked into my eyes once the whole evening. I’m not talking about making eye contact. I’m talking about looking into me. The kind of look that tells a person nothing else matters right now. I spent the evening fruitlessly fighting off thieves I could not see as they laughed at me while stealing away my bride. I spent the night standing in line wondering when I was going to get my turn to be in her sights. But standing in a line behind a noisy restaurant full of strangers and all their distractions, behind fucking asinine family drama, behind walls of pain and buckets of memories from hell is a long and lonesome line in which to stand.

My resilience is waning. I told her once: “I have more patience than you have crap to go through.” I can absolutely back that statement up. Last night, though, that limit was tested. Tonight that limit was tested, again. I’m finding myself slamming into that limit more frequently than I anticipated. More frequently than I’d like and it’s freaking me out. I don’t like what’s on the other side of that line. It’s not all that clear to me what is on the other side, but in my experience breaking a limit is typically not a good thing.

I used to be a bottler. I would stuff things away that hurt me or offended me and then once the bottle was full, I’d explode. I’ve been learning to not do that lately; to either deal with things or let them roll off into oblivion. Is that possible? I feel like I’ve been doing pretty good at letting quite a bit roll off. I suppose that very claim is an oxymoron. Actually… I’ve got a few things bothering me that I’ve not addressed. I don’t know if now is the right time to barf them all out. This is heavy enough already and I think my plan is working — my eye lids have become rocks and my legs are restless and numb. Proofreading is a chore. I’m battling the doze. It’s now after 3:30 am.

I love my wife. Make no mistake about that. I loved her before I knew her. She is an incredible creature, full of passion, empathy, fire, pain and light. She is thee most loving person I know, and the most honest. One of the many things she has taught me is honesty and for better or for worse, my words tonight feel brutally honest.

It’s a shame I wasn’t brave enough to make this public.

Finally posted on May 4, 2011.