The Wood, It Burns

I had the most beautiful post in the history of ever and Safari ate it.  Just fucking killed it.  It talked about susurrations and tall grasses and hormones and loneliness and the ways of being in the world.  It talked about overlapping roads.  I want to recreate it but how do I remember it all?  How can I remember the way it completely resolved a mood I was swinging through but now is gone.  And now I have to write a thousand words tonight.  An act for which there is no medal.  I wish I could just say believe me.  Believe in this table I created for you.  The first line went something like “Some nights I keenly desire to create something beautiful for you.  Some soft but growing susurration running over the wheat and the ferns until the noises rise together, firm, autonomous, as though created by the machinery of everything, the very elements of the air to your ear and awakens something real and alive within you.”  It wasn’t like that at all, actually, but that was a terrible approximation.

-I left work early which has set me at a strange angle to the rest of the day.  I think I may be getting sick.  I think I must sound like the most trying and unpleasant person in the world.   Like this little nebbish woman I know who scuttles in and out of rooms and looks imperiously at everything as though she sees it ruined and crumbling to dust beneath your very fingers and thinks you quite an impertinent and shrill little creature and excuse her, she has some dalmatians to skin.   I don’t want to sound as though I am retracting from the world or as though I see the lives of others as beneath me.   When all the time I’m questioning myself, my purpose, my worthiness.

You look at Facebook (which, like so many technologies, brings its good and ill with it) and you see your friends going to concerts, your sister officially in a relationship, your co-workers going to a play and you are here.  In your room.  And all the steps I’ve taken, all the struggle, all the years, all of it feels completely wasted and for naught.  Like my post.  As beautiful and fully formed as it was, it died and was whisked away into the Land of Lost Posts, and you can’t meet it.  You just get this.  Second-choice.   I sometimes wish there was a blue ribbon panel that judged ways of being.  Then I could know how off-route I am and I could recalculate.

I am despondent.  I am relieved.  I am not on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  I am as I am as I ever will be.  Parts and pieces of saints and sinners and drunks and rock stars and seemingly functional admin assistants.   I have a weekend.  I have some more days off.  I have tried to convince myself that I am all alone in my sorrows, but everywhere it seems, we are suffering our isolation together.