Broken Window to My Life

It's all the blur of memory now, even though it wasn't even five minutes ago. That's my life, though. Meretricious persiflage, damnably literally that describes my life. With someone like Billy Corgan as almost an idol, though, who can there be to blame? I've got to respect the man, having found and become content with faith after all those dark, depressed, depressing years. Hell, I'm only even writing this right now, at about 9:45 p.m. on May 16, 2005, because I've been reading his "confessions" on the site-in-progress billycorgan.com. It's really quite sad, considering it, how I'm so self-absorbed that I wonder at the self-absorption of others. It's a monday. Are all mondays like this? Dark, overdrawn Cumulonimbus clouds(bah! Earth-Science test this Friday.).1

"I really don't want to look stupid when I'm sleeping.2

I never really liked sunny days."3

-The Aeroplane Flies High(Turns Left, Looks Right), The Smashing Pumpkins4

There are so many chaoses in my life. Overall, my being so withdrawn only makes it that much more apparent, awkward. I can hardly stand meeting people; I feel so disconnected. My ex-girlfriend (I hate the term) Emma just the other day started to e-mail me after about nine months of disconnection. Of course, she just wants to be friends, but I can't help feeling so disconnected, as though I hardly even know her. I hardly do. Sure, we fell in love together for, what was it, nine months? But it wasn't because of any friendship. It was just e-mail after e-mail after e-mail that made us think we knew each other, even though she doesn't even live a half-hour away. It's amazing how one can idealize someone. And at the same time, I knew that that was what it was: ideals of each other. It was even a mutual agreement, that we were really only speaking untruths about each other. But oh, the sweet lies we savored; but oh the sickening joy that was in that root-beer kiss. I couldn't help but try to disconnect myself from a pseudo-reality that I was addicted to. The house of cards had to come tumbling down sometime, so I stopped building it; I stopped maintaining it; drifting down it came from the winds of Italy, after her bike-tour there. Drifting down like autumn leaves, it couldn't have ended less dramatically. We both just ended it, and now I'm disconnected from reality regarding her. I don't know how I should act, how I should say anything friendlily, but not lovingly; my sentences end up without a voice behind them, without a semblance of inflection, tone, or understanding of anything. Is this how all Mondays are? I can't help but ask myself if it's just me, the eternal introvert, failing to engage; failing to cope; failing to know how to even begin interacting with anyone anymore. Maybe I just haven't been getting enough sleep lately.5

"I've never felt so out of touch6

with this reality."7

-Tristan Van Maren8

That just surfaced when I read the comment of one "Eruvande Almare" on my most recent poem "Quintessence." I'd never thought of the poem as having anything to do with loneliness, with anything at all regarding a relationship, but upon regarding it in such a light, it seems it revealed to me an aspect of myself which I've avoided confronting for a long time. I've never really considered my, well, "romances" with depression as loneliness, the lack of someone to love and to be loved by, regardless of the sense in which "love" is meant. But the times with Emma were the happiest and most depressed times of my life so far. I could never wish such a confusing relationship, as one would necessarily be, upon anyone, especially if I loved them. So I've lied and lied to myself, even at times believing that "friendship is all I've ever sought anyway." As if that was ever true. My first relationship, which doesn't even deserve the term "relationship," was over the internet on "ringbearer.org." I don't even remember how that ended, except that "Carangaladhwen" is still a good poet, and I faded, as I always will, into the background. But I'm not lonely; I'm not desperate; I just misunderstand myself. God knows the seas of crocodile tears I've cried for the sole purpose of tricking myself into thinking I was in Love; the thousands of repetitions of a name in the night.9

I'm "overbored, self-assured." Nirvana's only good because their lyrics perfectly match their music. I don't even have any music; not to say I haven't tried, what with the guitar lessons of Summer, 2004; but those died off once my teacher had to run the shop instead. I never could keep anything going without someone expecting something of me. Why am I even writing this? Maybe I just want to let everyone peek into my life through my own eyes; maybe I just want to taint the perspective of anyone looking into my life. "I'm not depressed, I'm real" I think to myself; one more lie to help me on my way, to ease the pain; I never knew where it comes from.10

"Existentialism is nothing"11

I told Emma, replying to her comment about how pointless English class is. Of course, when I say nothing, I try to mean that thing which is nothing, in the quite literal sense. Sure, I claim my nihilism is12

"a means to the end of absolute Truth."13

But who am I kidding except myself? Am I kidding myself? Nihilism, it seems to me, is just the excuse I use for not interacting, an explanation for my desperately-seeking-a-friend-or-love anti-social nature. Is it nature, or is it self-imposed? I don't know what I want from this world. I don't know where I am in this world. I have no excuse to run away from it all; I've had an idyllic childhood without any of the messed-up problems which seem so prevalent in the stereotype of the "tortured artist." I torture myself so that I can feel like one, or so it must appear to the outside world; they're probably right in more ways that I can imagine.14

Damnit, Eliot,15

"This is the way the world ends16

This is the way the world ends17

This is the way the world ends18

Not with a bang, but a whimper."19

-The Hollow Men, by T. S. Eliot20