I’ve got nothing pushing me.
something anything the thing
that will make me feel
something anything the thing
that will complete
me you us everything
there isn’t one
There is no way for me to explain away the restlessness.
The middle years are easy to write. It was preteen/teen angst and the glory of the awkward. I knew I wasn’t good enough for any of them and so I never was and never tried to be. I was always going to “show them” in some indefinite future. I never did. Not much has changed since then. Instead of hiding behind the quiet, plotting in silence, I hide behind the loud, boisterous nonsense. And no one is fooled.
It was the sixth grade dance and I didn’t want to be there. Amy, the girl I had a crush on, had a boyfriend, Rick, and she was here with him. And I didn’t need to see that. What was that going to help? It was only going to make me more miserable. Not that I knew anything of “misery” but let a kid pretend to know what it means to have a broken heart. But somehow I got suckered in. My mom was one of the chaperones. Not of the dance part, thank reputation. But since she was going to be there, I had to stay. Awkward. So there I was with Dave, walking the dance floor. We weren’t dancing. We were neither cool enough to actually feel comfortable dancing nor lame enough to dance anyway. We had just spent a good twenty minutes by the punch bowl talking about how we should have brought something to “spike” it. We didn’t really know what that meant. But we knew that we would be a lot cooler if we did. And we knew enough to pretend. But the punch bowl got old. And it was a little too close to where the chaperones were standing and hating themselves. So we were heading out to see whatever else this shit dance had to offer to suave and sophisticated men as ourselves. This, unfortunately, meant that we had to cross the dance floor. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was commenting in the ironically detached way that would become my trademark that this was a really lame party. Then we were accosted by this pretty young thing. She normally went by the name of Allison and she normally sat two rows over and one seat up from me in class. Not that I had a thing for her. Because I didn’t really. She was pretty. And she did have a boyfriend. (I have always had a thing for unavailable or uninterested women). But I was into Amy at the time. So I hadn’t really given Allison much thought. She asked me to dance. Me. Not Dave. Me. Did I mention that she was pretty? I, however, was an idiot in 6th grade. A trait that has not changed in the slightest. I made a joke about her boyfriend. And a comment about how I didn’t dance. And then we kept going. On our way out. To nothing in particular and one of the most memorable regrets of my young life.
The World is completely indifferent to my existence. And I am starting to share the opinion. Cries of hate are better than I could hope for. When they hang me, no one will come. Even the crows will disregard my putrefying corpse. If nothing I will ever do will ever make a difference, why haven’t I given up yet? You can see some things better in the dark. The screams waiting within me will never find their true release. And then I wonder why I my thoughts venture toward the darker things. It is a feeling of abounding uselessness. And not in the good Taoist sense. But in the Western purposeless and drifting sense. I have lost my anchor. I am drifting out into the madness of my own creation. And yet? There was something I was supposed to do before I left. And it won’t get done now. And the world will suffer. As it always does. And yet. It remains completely indifferent. Not that my plight is in anyway unique. Nor am I in any way unique. It’s all the same bullshit. Over and over and over and over. And then what happens? The crowds who once cheered you hang you for a murderous traitor. I don’t care if they hate me. I just need some attention. Accept me. Acknowledge me. Don’t let me die alone. Everyone dies alone. Bitch all you want. It won’t help. It won’t fucking get you anywhere. Same end. No one lives forever. This is not the way it was meant to be. This is not how it was supposed to turn out. My Muse failed me again. As she always does. As she always must. Contentment is the nemesis of creation.
Writing usually helps me. It helps me vent, control my feelings, get control of myself. It isn’t working. Jealousy was never my kind of girl. Not that she ever stays long with me. But she fucks me up while she’s here. And leaves me a shell of myself. To rebuild and find another. As I have time immemorial. I really should find a better racket. One that actually works. I can’t believe I have stuck with this fucked up shit for so long. It never worked. It has never made me happy. I don’t even believe in happy anymore. I don’t think it’s possible. At least not for me. Look what I have become. I held such promise in my youth. It has slowly drained from me. And left me like this. And no one can tell. And no one can tell. Or if they can, they don’t care at all. And I think that is probably worse.
Mommy never wanted this for me. And she doesn’t know how it happened. I hid so much from everyone. Over all the years. It’s no wonder she never saw it happening. But slowly. Slowly. I lost myself. My essence drained away from me. The failure for me to become one of them and the failure of me to remain myself. Failure. Always failure. Always regret. Always. My Muse. She has always let me down.
And no one fucking understands. How could they? How could they? I barely understand. I am drowning in myself and my disappointment. I was meant for so much more. How did I end up like this? I could have been somebody. But now? Now, I don’t know who I am. But I know I’m not somebody.
“Do you need anybody? I just need someone to love. Could it be anybody? I want somebody to love.”
- The Beatles, “With A Little Help From My Friends”