Hello friends. Here’s another writing about mostly nothing. Well, not entirely, nor in the past neither: writing does help iron out perspectives. As long as you have one.
I don’t really feel like writing, but I don’t feel like doing any of the alternatives either.
Do you feel yourself stepping through the Portal? We’re at the point of no return now. Maybe you could imagine the ballroom around the corner. A seance of the most spectacular and cheery dancers – wearing anything, anything at all.
Such full ceremonies are the only recourse. We could list all of those who won’t make it, but what use is that? No, no – this is the best foot forward surely. I mean, even if all the ghosts fly away – sun setting our checkered-set floor – surely you’ll play another song?
It’s only when you’re standing in the foreclosed home do you understand the game we’re playing. Suffering sometimes has a funny nuance you could take, the same as a neatly placed olive: a different flavour however bitter.
Omnia mea mecum porto: You only can take your everything with you while everything else with everyone else melts away. It’s just really hard to comprehend that sometimes. It’s really, really hard to comprehend that you’re wasting so much moments on nonsense.
I think it’s so hard to comprehend because while you still have these faces in front of you, surely you want to shield them from the pain you know so well. Maybe you’re naive enough to think that’s where you get your value. Even though anyone could replace you.
Since it’s so hard to comprehend, I figure it’s better to not bother. Secretly though I wish I knew it well, so I could ghost everything and gather my bags and fill them with the things for a trek into eternity.
People think being a schizoid is a tragedy. Though there’s a tragedy embedded by identifying with anything at all in the DSM-5 pokédex it is fun to don some dresses from its collections. It’s convenient too, encapsulating common archetypes: but are they common because people identify them, or because people already were of them? Such flairs for a dinner party however long ago must’ve been absurd, but oh well.
Being a schizoid seems like the correct choice, if there ever was one. Why invest in people who can’t stick around? Why risk oneself such exposures in the meantime? What enjoyment is there with its termination hovering around you – if not termination, than a taunting most surely.
Taunted most surely for there are no more taverns without local goblins. And convenience is now a deceptive moniker for needed proximity: what in the world are you doing with people you cannot share some finger sandwiches in a minute flat? The richest part is the inability to just hang out even if you could, but maybe that’s okay anyway.
Maybe it’s all okay. Because even if I could wash crumb’d plates in the evening, have the luxury to plastic-wrap some sweets for next greetings, there one sits, not the least bit changed. Self-hatred scream games as you turn on all the lamps – dread gurgling up knowing what’s next and you haven’t much about it.
Oh how I wish I could comprehend it. How I wish I could pay someone to replace me entirely and let me feel it properly. How useless it may be, and learn to embrace it.