I realized a few minutes too late that while I was surfing the web and doing useless, andrew bird-related things I missed my deadline to post something for today (now yesterday). I also missed my chance to invite another slew of friends from facebook (for some unknown and frustrating reason, they limit you to a certain # of invites per day). Alas, such is (my) life.

Today I was thinking that I might post a series of sonnets I wrote for my final project in my final semester at school. I haven’t published them anywhere so far, I think because they’re supposed to mean something in a deep, cathartic way and I’m afraid that once I start posting them all over the place it’ll be like a newspaper’s pages splattered over wet city streets… a dime a dozen, so to speak. But at the same time, I want them to be read so I can unburden myself of their painful weight, one that I carry everywhere, alone. I intended for there to be more than 10 sonnets in the sequence, but was overwhelmed by the enormity of that endeavor. I may go back sometime and expand on what I’ve done… but it seems unlikely. As Frost says, “…knowing how way leads on to way / I doubted if I would ever come back.”

As for the current ramblings of my heart and mind, let’s see…

I’m a disaster. Everyone who knows me knows this. I find people’s reaction to this reality somewhat entertaining. Certain people are determined to change it somehow. Some of these certain people are increasingly frustrated by my lack of progress in that direction. Others are absorbed in their own lives enough not to notice, or care. Some people – even some friends – shy away from my reality, as though it’s some kind of disease and they’re afraid it might be catching. Or perhaps they’re bored of my unchanging state of mind and being. Or disgusted? Who knows.

But as the disappointment/guilt/frustration/amusement/apathy/shock/confusion/anger at my situation grows in others, I find it diminishes in me. Why feel bad all the time when everyone else seems to want to do it for me? Okay. That wasn’t true. I don’t really feel that way. But what I do feel is that after a while, I’m so tired from all those emotions building in me and simultaneously being mirrored in the faces of people around me that I just don’t feel like feeling any of it anymore.

The depressing details of my reality don’t matter. The result is what matters. The result, as far as I can tell, is a state of mind that discourages any progress towards changing the details of my reality. This in turn leads to a worsened state of mind, and so on and so forth. I believe this is what is meant by ‘downward spiral’.

I’m darkly amused by the fact that when I was younger, I was arrogantly convinced that I would never be like the people in the movies who let their lives fall apart. I would never let things get so bad that I couldn’t or wouldn’t get out of them. I would never understand suicide. I would never live my mistakes over and over again, and I would never, ever go crazy trying to stay afloat in this world.

And just look at me now.

All I can say is that, hopeless as I may feel or seem, I’m obviously not entirely so. True hopelessness is what makes suicide a possibility, and since I’m still breathing, I’ve obviously got a few tattered shreds of hope left. As far as action is concerned, I don’t know what to do or how to do it, or even why. I have no real home, no real attachments, and no real goals. I have hopes and dreams, but as always they tend to live up in the clouds (like my head most of the time). They only allow certain visitors up there too… Money is not welcome, and Practicality usually finds “Do Not Disturb” hanging on the doorknob. Faith is afraid to approach because of a sign that reads “Beware of God.” And Follow-Through passes right on thru the open window and out the back screen door.

So for now, all I can do is pile up my thoughts like pillows here, to lay my head upon each night. I’m hoping eventually I’ll find the right ones; I’m tired of waking up with a crick in my neck.