archival. some lessons are hard. some lessons are harder. and some… some lessons seem impossible. sigh.
On Thu, January 11, 2007 10:05 am, ****** wrote:
> Thank you for your moments
> Your Stranger ******
>
> P.S
> Had a story from my own life about intent all written but got erased ,
> funny how things happen….
i do not even know what to think now. how to think. if i think. maybe it
is just all too snarled up to ever make sense of… maybe it is just so
much distraction that it will never be clear.
who are you. i laugh to even ask it. afterthoughts and second-guessing
that should have been first and hoisted by my own petard, ever and always.
swinging in the wind and uncertain in every way… insecurity and fear
running lightening bolts through my veins and just so tired of being hurt
and condemned that i hurt and condemn others trying to avoid it.
aversion. horrific. stupidity. irony. oh, yes, irony.
but who are you.
is it possible to adequately explain the bizarre circumstances and events
that surround this? would they make any sense, or just seem like insane
babblings?
i do not know.
but here, in this moment, uncertain and confused and wondering, and ‘just
because’, i will lay them out as they seem here… maybe it is just
another exercise in futility. maybe, once again, fear and insecurity win
and wreck another delicate, beautiful thing before it can even be borne.
maybe, lost in humanity and with reflexes honed to superhuman heights by
the blood trail of this year just past, i make the very mistake i most
fear having made of me, against me, at me.
irony. i hate irony even as it loves me with reckless, persistent focus.
deep breath. steady. ready. go….
there are two people i thought i knew. *****. *******. we shared a moment.
we tried to be friends. we got in our way. eternally. anger and fear and
insecurity like bumper cars, repelling us from one another.
i’m sure we each think we’re the wrong one. i’m sure we each search our
own thoughts and intentions and rationalize our way to the cushion that
“saves” us from seeing ourselves.
only mine doesn’t work so well. or maybe it does.
i see their side. and it tugs on tender places here. and i hurt for being
unable to skillfully manage myself in relation to them. and i hurt for how
they so often assume the very worst of me when i intend only the best (for
all i so rarely manage it).
and it is all lost, lost, lost.
and yet, in weird ways, it is found.
there is a friend of these two. his name is *******. he lives in ********.
i don’t know him. but i do know that other friends of these two
have made special effort to find me. to get close to me. then, to ‘show
me’ thing as if i do not see them. and in it, to hurt me. defending their
friends, they justify malice.
my blog, they crawl over it like maggots on a carcass. i see them there
constantly. i block them, but they insist. persist. sometimes i think they
know i am watching the traffic. it’s like someone leaning out the window
to flip you off and you don’t know why, really… but you do. they detest
you. hate you. even as they don’t even know you.
they don’t even know you. they only know you by words given from others.
angry words. pained words. words wrapped in those very nettles of self.
just like mine. just like all of ours.
irony. heavy stuff.
you live in the same place. you choose a name that is the same. you spin
things that hold many layers of meaning, and the deeper ones only appear
on second look, third, fourth, more.
you say you are ******. i do not know ******. i do not really know
*******. are they the same? were they ever different? can i possibly know?
no.
but i fear. and i am tired of hurting. and in the name of relief, even if
at the cost of a beautiful thing, the insecurity rushes into the street to
meet the oncoming truck of stupidity.
screech. crunch. snapping and popping and soft sounds of liquids mixing in
lethal ways.
poison in my clear water. yes. i am pocketed, pustulant, and ill. rotting
with it.
but who are you.
is it possible for one as ignorant as me to learn?
is it possible for me to be less than a whirlwind of destruction?
i have no idea.
so, hearing an echo, letting it resonate through me, feeling the places
where it touches ancient wounds as well as recent ones, i ask myself…
and i writhe… and i echo back the only thing i can.
hopeless, helpless, lost. but oddly, stupidly, insanely hopeful.
what a pitiful thing i am. i am sorry. forgive me. or damn me. but for
whatever mercy and compassion ever existed, tell me….
who are you?