I have felt sadness before. Loathing and anger are no strangers to my emotional pallet, and I can tell you of bitter swallows of both heartbreak and unrequited desire. Ahh yes, yet they were always the kind of drink that scalded the throat, lightened the wallet and will…and ultimately taught me a lesson, desired or not. But this…this is a watered down pint of spirits. This strange, weak emotive mead is brewed not of the deepest sorrow, nor the sharp tang of regret. It is stale, and it is hateful and I know it will not allow me to drink deeply of it so I may lose it in a hangover the next day. I drink of piss-warm egotism, and yet I can’t bring myself to walk over to the toilet and deposit the liquid where it rightfully belongs.
Maybe it is the occupying of my thoughts that makes this so unique. I feel sad, but not so sad as to rise up and resolve against all those sad things in the world. I feel angry, but only as much as a frustrated houseplant must feel when someone nudges its vase. I wallow and groan, but if I were to try to share my defeat with the many caring and lovely people in my vicinity, I am instantly rendered ashamed and would dare not continue past a noncommittal huff. I almost believe it conquerable by a little will, a little smile and a pinch of the better sugars of our nature. Yet the tears come, they sting, and they tell me I must continue feeling like this a little while longer, though they barely threaten to escape the lacrimal gland.
Of all the rampaging thoughts fighting to make sense of it all, it was the idea that I have become irrelevant that seemed to resonate correctly and echo the correct pitch of this feeling. It is the feeling of not being listened to, and to the extreme point of a blade held in the air between you and the possibility of meaning something. It is the feeling of being interrupted half way through every vocal ejaculation like some kind of strange kink paid for at a mistress’ whim. This blue-balled chastity of meaningful discourse could be easily unlocked and remedied with the slick-handed attentions of almost any willing partner, but deep down, the guilt of an unfaithful moment seems to overpower the ability to stand at attention. The chaste irrelevance of the moment continues pending the mercy of the one holding the key to the lock…of the one holding the attention you need to the tune of a need.
I have felt the sting of endless interruptions, misplaced attention and absentee audiences for compounding years. Is it possible that the interest stemming from all this credit abuse is finally gaining on me? Is finally eating away at my emotional reserves? It certainly feels similar; like realizing a bill hasn’t been paid on time, or a paycheque has finally gone missing. And yet, unlike the almighty dollar, I have no way to combat this. I cannot simply work overtime, eat ramen, and forego new sneakers for a summer until books balance and ends meet ends. One cannot walk to the pawn shop of emotion and trade a day’s worth of bliss for enough satisfaction to repair this incredibly shit start of the year.
But I do have one weapon. One tool of the trade. And maybe it will be enough to flush this foul smelling funk of self-pity down the drain. Reluctantly but relentlessly, I must employ it. There are far more pleasant ways to pollute oneself.
And so,
I write.
No better poison exists.
Add A Comment