I need to ward off this feeling that I must analyze our break and my current state from every angle.
This is the third song, poem, or essay today. I need to get it all out now. Then, I’ll live and discuss other things. It’s the only way. I’m ripped away from hope and confidence. I should have celebrated life all week, being free from work for a bit. Instead, I lament my loneliness. For once in my life, I’m afraid you’re starting to canoodle with other guys. A fear I thought I shed in the aftermath when the last girl said goodbye. And honestly, I just thought I didn’t love you as much as her. I was afraid to really admit it, cause I thought, maybe I was just too crazy last time, and, as a more mature man, I did not need to be that paranoid worshipper I was before. I drove her away with clingy devotion, I know now. And that’s not a compliment to myself. I lose myself in these relationships, or so the girls say. “Where are your friends, your hobbies that you define yourself with?” Looking back, I think it’s all a lie. Maybe I search for relationships so I can be the lazy bonobo I truly want to be. Someone to stay home nearly every night with, eat bad food, watch T.V., sleep, and make love; I’m some faux intellectual artist just to reel you in. Then, I trick you into thinking you trapped me and stripped me of some potential greatness. Can’t I just be similar to you? Can’t my talk still define me somewhat? My hopes, my sometimes fulfilled ambitions of writing and playing instruments, I’m not where I say I wanna be. But maybe I need to aim for hopeless heights just to reach modest plateaus, still slowly climbing up the sky. Here I am, pouring concentrated effort into creative acts after years of comparable lull, and I won’t be happy with any of them until I look back from future comfort. I’ll be showing some girl under my arm this piece inbetween TV season binges. Now, doing what I define myself with most, I’m more miserable than I’ve been in months. Can’t help but believe all my art attempts ****. Yet, what’s really lacking in my life isn’t a confident talent, it’s a strong companion. Romantic or otherwise,
I pushed them away. Now, I’m too old and the world’s too odd for me to easily find another one.
Yet, when I do again get to that exciting stage of first dates, will I continue my artist rouse that soon concedes to comfort laze, or will I find someone who portrays a fellow adventure seeker? Seeming or genuine, it won’t really matter. It will be a interesting match of stamina. I’m sure I won’t mind if she breaks down and we spend a week on the couch, but how long can I keep up?
How is this all affecting me, besides the artist rouse breaking down, as I described above?
I’ll use a word, I don’t think I ever used to describe an emotion:
I’m feeling gray. Even wore a black and gray outfit, today. Decided to change the gray jeans to blue jeans to look more cheery at the $5 jam band concert. Then, around 3:30 pm, turns out the show was sold out online. They said I could try my luck at the door, but I feared I would drive 35 minutes to the city only to find I couldn’t get in, and would have to drive another 35 back. Oh, how I miss living close by like all my friends I would meet there. Though they all have girlfriends, so I’d be the 5th or 7th wheel. But, hey, it’s a concert, maybe I’d meet someone like before the internet. But *******, what hassle being out in the boonie ‘burbs! Last summer, I coulda just tried for a ticket, get denied and go home in like 15 minutes time. A year of my own place, split rent with one of the gals who thought I wasn’t reaching my goals. That was the prime of my bonobo times.