For the Love of Me

A luxury perhaps reserved for a fortunate few
With crises and instability; world on precipice
Of human-initiated implosions – necessity of love is questioned

A necessity perhaps lost on the unenlightened masses
With savage characteristics dominant in our cognitive capacity
Filling otherwise necessary spaces, love is our only comfort

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There is a distinct difficulty I have describing how I feel anymore. Not what I am feeling about something, but actually how I feel – about myself. The generalizations no longer suffice and the specifications are often frightening to self and definitely to others. When description is misinterpreted as manifesto, at best, and as some sort of suicidally ambiguous cry-for-help, at worst, words have to be chosen with great care. Paradoxically, I’d hate for someone to offer conclusion to the tightfisted clues provided. It would be taken as an insult to intelligence (the construct).

The obvious problem with choosing one’s words in an overtly rigorous fashion, then, is the threat of beating of authenticity into script. Cliché is too alluring a trap for even the most cynical and creative. When your world is built upon several well-honed devices, breaking free is difficult. But, when the world you’ve built is also your only remaining citadel, the walls are often thick and old. Mother wolverines are less ferocious protectors of their kits.

Herein lies the problem. Feelings are extraordinarily complicated – complex even. Written description and analyses – unless you are both deeply intuitive and are a terrific writer – may remain an elusive impossibility for most of us. Analysis becomes not only ambitious, but also exponentially more difficult to confront head on.

So, what am I feeling? If I close my eyes and concentrate, I understand that I am tired; deeply weary. I long to sit still and alone and listen to my brain and body; to slowly discover what benefits solitude may present. Unfortunately, and at present, I believe that solitude may prove addictive, with the ending of a temporary seclusion resulting in a depression inducing wanting.

Needy? Sure, I’ll say that I am needy. It’s the same needs we all have in varying proportions and incarnations historically. We all have our needs, yeah? Particular needs range from a need for someone to wrap us up like tiny puppies and keep us warm and safe – to someone generously serving as our personal playgrounds. Balance, I’m guessing, is key but human needs ignored are akin to landmines: be careful where you step.

But, back to how I am feeling. I don’t know. Pensive? Cliché. Riddled with angst? Too dramatic, really. Unsatisfied? Closer. It’s almost a feeling of nearing self-actualization but not being able to catch up to it…yet. Being the greyhound chasing the racetrack “rabbit” is frustrating. Maybe its feeling as if you are the collective pieces of a jigsaw puzzle – all the pieces are there – but remaining fully unsolved isn’t the primary objective (maybe this condition exists because of an insane level of self-selected difficulty). Mime in an imaginary bubble? That’s just stupid. I don’t know. But, it’s interesting. We are close, just not there yet.

Obviously there is desire and the desire to taste the fruits of forbidden concupiscence. This, clearly, is undeniable and possibly an instrumental factor in the funk of present. Wrapped into these lust fantasies is a rigid belief that pursuit is not only deserved, but is morally consistent with homily of integrity. Paradoxes of ironies.

Taken together, conditions summed is like a gauntlet thrown at the feet of one’s belief structure and sense of self-defined superiority. Challenges! I’ve lived a life of accepting and defeating challenges without fear or remorse. Never is a winning streak guaranteed though. Probability, in fact, insists that winning as an absolute, is impossible. We are all subject to rule, whim, and sadism of our existence’s chaos. Science and dogma be damned.