Monday, February 8, 2010
Is it inconceivable to be misconceived? Understandable to be misunderstood? An illusion to be disillusioned?
Thwarted in between what you know and what you think. What you expect and what you want to believe. Your own mindless purgatory.
Torn asunder in the misery you find now so comforting, like a soft blanket that surrounds you, keeping you warm and protected from the cold harshness of the outside, yet knowing that the softness you crave isn't there at all. You're not shrouded in it, you're hiding from it.
You know no other way really, not anymore. That once naive girl so lost in romance and happy-ever-after a stranger to you now. You try to remember her, in thoughts and memories, you reach deep into yourself and try to resurrect her, to no avail.
Resuscitation failing time and time again.
You love, you feel love, but can't succumb to it. You start to fall and catch yourself. You feel the hurt quickly from the vulnerability of it and you pull yourself back into yourself, as a turtle into its shell, hard and calluses, hiding the tenderness known inside, but outside, its hard, closed off.
For this you're faulted. Flaws known yet thrown back at you like boiling water splashed in your face. Burned by your own being.
You keep things not secret. You're candidly open about your closed offedness. An irony in and of itself. And yet punishably afflicted. Those flaws which were once so drawing, are now like a magnet in opposition pushing away.
The circumstantial decrepitcy that is your life, that follows you like a rabid animal, repeatedly taunting and biting, foaming at the mouth, beyond your control that consumes you, is not just your demon. Not just the poltergeist that takes over every ounce that you are and turns all around you negative and sour. Your life, your mood.
And you're expected to just smile through it all, pretend you're not affected. That yes it can be worse, but golly-gee I am grateful. I am not built that way. Perhaps once I had that mechanism to be blank and bland and unfeeling of all things real, but then I had things happen, time and time again. I tried to be grateful. To be optimistic, to wishfully think that things would be ok, and over and over again I was proved wrong. Shown that things don't work out, that if you expect things you will be disappointed, that if you love you will be hurt and if you work hard, it won't pay off.
So I stopped smiling. I stopped pretending that it would all come out in the wash, that things would eventually be ok. I stopped expecting anything from anyone. And I was realistic. I was ok with that. I was self reliant. Self-preserved.
And sure, I get those silly estrogen notions that someday my prince will come, and I will live happily ever after, but then I wake up. I remember its all bullshit and lies. All driven by hormones not necessity. By media and not by need. It's all fiction and greeting cards and not reality.
Even when presented with what you think is real, the looking glass shatters and you stumble like Alice, down down down into an alternate reality. Things you thought were real, not. You reach out to touch them on your way down to realize it was all an illusion. Falling into a dark abyss surrounded by oddities until you land hard, in a cold, bleak underground place. Alone, and inevitably hurting.
And yet...you are torn.