Saturday, July 16, 2005

Where are you?

... are you out there somewhere? I don't know where you might be. I haven't heard from you in forever. I've tried calling... I e-mailed... I dreamed...

I looked out off the balcony tonight, saw the moonlight casting that curious glow across the scattered clouds. Semi-obscured by the clouds itself, it was surrounded in a halo, the beams piercing casually but persistently through the masses. The light bounced and scattered over the rippled cloud bottoms, the land below alive and lighted by it's own. I thought of you, wondered where you were, wondered what had happened to you, wondered why I hadn't heard from you.

Why you hadn't returned my calls.

Why you hadn't returned my e-mails.

Why you seemed to disappear.

I hope you're still out there, somewhere. I hope you're happy. If you've left me behind, moved on with your life, I understand. I won't persist. I won't pierce the darkened clouds. I just want to see that light a little bit, to know it still exists. To know you're alive. To know you're happy.

I used to care about so much. I had passion, I had fire, I had love.

Time heals all wounds, but it also deadens all senses.

I wonder, now and then, about the life that could have been. More often, I wonder about the life that might be. What will happen as the twilight grows nearer? What will happen as the light fades, as the passion dies? Will I live still, only to live, not to experience?

I wonder, on these nights, why I'm bothering to wonder.

I quit drinking for a time. I quit drugs. I quit sex. I quit so much. I find the focus, the purpose, the singularity of thought and importance of action, but only by denying myself all the "pleasures" can I bring it all out. Only by ending the feeling can I renew the purpose.

Is this, then, the point? Am I meant to slowly deny myself more and more? To forego this and that, more and more, every pleasure, every escape, only to end with nothing?

Should I embrace the pleasure instead? Should I live the hedonistic life, foresaking determination and accomplishment in favor of pleasure and release?

Am I weak to want to indulge? Or am I dead to deny my self the indulgence?

The answer may seem apparent. A balance, they say, a middle ground between. All good things are the result of compromise, to go to the extremes results only in self-destruction. But is the middle any better? Is it safer only because of a sacrifice of true existence? If I strive only to achieve a little of this and a little of that, don't I in the end achieve nothing at all?

Maybe coming here wasn't what I needed.

Maybe escaping it wasn't what I wanted.

Maybe all I've achieved is a pill, a temporary offset of the problems. Maybe in the end, I'll always be haunted by these visions.

I wake at night, screaming without noise, sweating and heart racing, for no reason. What dreams I remember are not of terror, are not of danger, not of violence, rather they are only of the same thing I see in the day. They are of mediocrity, of repetition, of pointlessness.

Life is my nightmare, it seems.

What a fucking disappointment.

I hope you're out there, happy. I hope you aren't thinking about these things like you always did before. I hope you've found that comfort you longed for. Perhaps if you've found it, I can take some solace in knowing I haven't. Perhaps I can rest easy knowing the universal balance required me to know no peace only so that you might know some.

Perhaps... perhaps...

Right now, I desperately wish I hadn't quit drinking.

Let this be the end, the beginning, or whatever else you might wish to take it to be. For myself, I'll take it to be nothing more than a continuation of the rest.

Sleep well, my dear.

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