Tuesday, March 15, 2016

The Hunger Pains

Anxiety by eduardo flores [ bayo ]
They say that you shouldn't go grocery shopping when you're hungry. I wonder if that same rule applies to writing when you're sad. Or course, that is when I most want to write, expunging the dark fluttering demons in my soul. Alternately, you wouldn't want to go shopping after a heavy five course meal. You wouldn't even feel like looking at food. So, if I'm happy, I'm not likely to want to run to my laptop, thinking, I must write about puppies and kittens; their soft fur and wet tongues. Not hardly. When the angst is knee deep, that's when I feel like opening my veins and bleeding all of that pain and sorrow onto the page.

When I started this blog over eight years ago, I thought the content would consist of my film and book reviews; but when I sit down to write, the topics are my inner angst, depression and general observations about the world. I suppose that blogs can and do serve as an online journal, and how revealing one makes it is a personal choice. It's much easier to write about sadness, and post it on a blog, when all I see in response are the number of pageviews. Once in a while, I'll get a comment. There's an old adage, Misery loves company, so maybe I'm just sharing my grief, and in the process try and unload some of this toxic emotional baggage, that won't even get through security at the airport anymore.

I don't want to fight no more. No mas. No mas. I'm losing strength and I end up being my own worst enemy. Yes, we have to live with the decisions we make, bad and worse, but are we really making those decisions freely? For me, it seems like life just keeps happening. One day follows the next, season after season. Maybe it's different for the planners in the world; the movers and shakers. The punchers and drinkers. Do I need to experience a horrible loss, before I can stop and smell the roses? Maybe. But one person's tragedy is not necessarily the tragedy of another. Life, for me, is a tragicomedy. If I didn't laugh at the current situation, I'd cry. There's a fine line between comedy and tragedy; tears of laughter and tears of grief.

Yes, I have so much to be thankful for, and everything is so beautiful. Tell that to the chemicals being zapped between the synapses in that thick custard known as my brain. I can easily refrain from running down the sidewalk in my underwear, waving a cleaver and babbling incoherently. I have at least that much self-restraint. But I can't seem to pull my head out of my anal cavity lately, and that may be why I end up being in the bathroom so long in the morning now.

Life is beautiful. If only we were independently wealthy -- instead of being in debt to the IRS -- we would be able to fully enjoy the very short time we have here on the blue planet; spending more time with our families; reading all those books we've been meaning to get to; enjoying both the sunshine and the rain. Instead, like most other folks, we scrape by, barely keeping our heads above water, while simultaneously trying to keep our humor about us.

Speaking of beauty, the sun is out, and that warmth and light will likely only last minutes, so I must get my gear together, gather my cares and woes, and carry all these chains I've forged in life with me as I walk to work. Come to think of it, our garbage gets picked up today. I think I'll throw all this dinged up and ratty emotional baggage right into the trash receptacle. Or maybe the compost bin is more appropriate.

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