December 29, 2003

Normally before I post poetry, I have a short daylog explaining what it is. But this time, I won't. No one else really needs to know. Normally I try not to daylog twice in a row, but the poem belongs in today, therefore I must. Thank you for your patience.

you interest
    me in you
i'd like to know how to
cure you (osity)
from your self-directed
anim (osity). ain't it
      animated dis
-cussions like
these that cause
more (osity) con
-cussions of
          the self 

It's 0320 and I'm at work. I got here about a half hour ago to take the other half of someone's dispatch shift at campus security. This means I get to kill four hours catching up on my E2.

Since December 29 is only three hours old here, I'll have to predict the future a little. Go with me on this.

A loan payment I set up a month and a half ago is going to be processed today. This will leave me, well, all the way short on rent. That's ok though, because rent is due on the 1st and payday is the 2nd. My rental property holds on to rent checks for a few weeks before cashing them, so I'm probably in good shape.

I'm going to call two of the girls that come in at 0700 at around 0630 and wake them up. This is of their own choosing. These happen to be two of my favorite people at this job, and I wish I was working with them instead of before them. Last semester we all worked Sunday nights together, and they're the only reason I didn't quit this job. They're good people.

Anyway, I'll get out of here around 0710, get home around 0730, and be asleep by 0732. I'll set my alarm for 1400 so I can get up in time for my other job at the factory. Nothing of note will happen there, because we were working on this Thursday's orders last Tuesday. We're coming into the slow winter season, and things are getting boring. After my eight hour shift there, I'll immediately lose consciousness again. I'm sleeping now like I did in high school, but I'm way too old for it. Makes me feel a little younger at any rate.

That will be the extent of my day. Thanks for talking to me E2. I've missed you so.

So you wouldn't believe this. There she is, liking me again. I know what you're thinking. Didn't I give up on her? Completely. Didn't I move past, collecting the broken shards of my heart from the slippery ground where she once stood? Most of them. Didn't I somehow drive myself to exist without this, my inamorata? Who does she think she is?

She acts as if every word she says to me doesn't have the impact of a thousand kisses or a million stabs or a hundred slaps. How can she not realize that she has this effect on me? Is it simply willful ignorance? Has she completely convinced herself that she has nothing to do with me, the sordid state my emotions are in, or any of this? Does some small part of her know that I still cry myself to sleep each night, with each tear that stains my cheeks a broken promise?

If she had to gaze upon my face, shimmering with tears, each night- would it change the way she thinks? Would it change the way she acts?

Is there some small part of her- something she forces down whenever it returns to her- that tugs at her? Pulling at her skirt like an eager child in a candy store, sure it knows what's best? Some small force that tugs at her- her heart- and tells her the choices she's making are the wrong ones? That she's giving up something, someone, who's equal she'll *never* find?

When all I can do is cough out these words of disparaged hope when talking to her; when every phone call ends with a sigh that tries my soul; when every time you hear her name, you cringe and you don't know why; when all these things ring true, and in the mirror each day, you wonder how one could become so broken because of the actions, words, letters, embraces, the touches of one girl.

And she's moved on. She doesn't think about you like you think about her. She has someone else. She has no one else. It doesn't matter, because it's not you. You weren't good enough. You weren't her type. You weren't what she was looking for. You didn't like the same music. You didn't like the same artists. You didn't have the same interests. You didn't make her laugh, enough. You made her cry one too many times. You didn't know the right words to say, when the right words were none at all. You didn't know where to put your hands. You didn't know how to describe to her the glimmer in her eye- the tugging at your *own* heart you felt every time you saw her. You didn't make her feel the way she feels now. You were flawed, fundamentally. You were designed to be broken, broken hearted. You were designed for this heartache. And she knew that.

So now I'm not too sure- I don't think she's liking me again. Not "like that", anyway. Then, maybe this- this possibility: She never *stopped* liking me "like that". Through her mind's own challenges to this logic, and her other boyfriends, and the bitter phone calls, and the hard-to-swallow cups of tea while looking at my picture- she still felt that tugging, and this time- this one time- the tugging was pulling her in the right direction. No longer was the tugging a child pulling his mother's skirt to look at the candy on the shelves- instead, it was to escape from this place, now set aflame, the child fulfilling a grander duty than could be known at the time.

They never listen to that tugging. No matter how hard it pulls, how deep they feel it, how right they *know* it is, they do everything possible to convince themselves that they "know better". They lead with their heart, an easily manipulated beast that doesn't know what it wants, flying on a whim... They need to lead with their souls; their hearts will listen to their souls, and they'll realize where true happiness lies. Not in the checkout lane, but in the exit. Not in the candy, but in the escape. And they wonder why they hurt. They wonder why there's pain. They convince themselves they're "better off". They convince themselves this is the "right thing". That's okay. Because when they realize that the right thing is in the opposite direction, will *you* still be standing there to greet them? I won't. I can't. And it's their loss.

It's your loss.

The conflict, the insanity

Suddenly they had a huge conflict. Actually they didn't even know the reason. He will probably have problems with himself, the one thought. I indeed am quite a pain in the ass, the other thought, but then again he has partly caused this misery I'm in right now.

I did only see one side of the story. And so I thought the other was a huge whiner. And with any luck you already know what should happen to insane whiners in my all but humble opinion. But if you don't, I'll hand out an explanation here.

In the old days, when everything was better, they knew how to take care of this kind of people. In the Middle Ages people thought that the insane were haunted by the devil. The perfect means to drive out evil spirits was to sentence someone to death by burning.

From the early Renaissance society would protect itself against idiocy by raising cuckoo's nests. Instead of ending up on the stake, the insane would henceforward see themselves attached to the asylum walls with rattling chains.

Nowadays they might spend five sessions on the sofa, after which no one knows what to do with them anymore. As a result the huge whiners follow their nature and start irritating innocent people. Actually I honestly cannot blame them. We all have decided collectively at one point in history that we wanted to be civilized. Now face the consequences.

Then it seemed that, as suddenly as it once started, the conflict seemed to simmer down. With profound caution they tried to regain contact. Maybe he's not such a bad guy after all, the one suggested. To which I declared I needed some fresh air.