For me, it's a cause of considerable upset that I'm not necessarily in the driver's seat of my own mind. Where I'm at the mercy of moods which are as meticulously merciless as they can be mellow and even mirthful. Melancholy and merry being opposite faces to the same coin, yet it's mind boggling how a few hours time can drag me kicking and screaming from the latter to the former, and all of this can happen regardless of how I try to steel myself or adjust my outlook on life.
Which may not be entirely fair, given the past week in all of its elaborate schemings. There's only so much patience to be had from cascading series of unfortunate turns and stresses, but perhaps the best and worst to come of such things is in that they end at some point. However, as long as this week's been, I must question when that end will arrive, and with how much fanfare of rest until it comes again.
Perhaps I'm being overly dramatic, in the same way one occasionally looks longingly at a long stroll off of a short pier wearing the latest in concrete shoe fashion. Regardless of that, though, certain weeks require something a little more than just the usual grime of daily life. Then again, perhaps the grime of daily life is the only thing that measures whether or not one is worth their company.
If that's the case, how I keep friends is anyone's guess...
The truth of the matter is that this week hasn't been doing me well. Missing class for a sick-feeling day made me miss a pretty significant amount of work, which in turn has decided to get me very nervous. The very nerves which make me feel more sick, which either compounds into nervous ticks or missing more work, which..
Compounds the problem further to include long evenings filled with too much work and too little pay, for a volunteering "job" that only I seem to remember why I'm doing it, and come up with a less convincing argument each time I try. Marrying that with the prospect of chasing friends away during the process, and losing friends for other reasons. It's a nasty week that's filled with equal parts disappointment, despair, and duty.
But hey, I've been running a lot to clear my brain out, often daily, so perhaps I have muscle damage to look forward to. Almost as if irresponsible decisions lead to consequences. Who knew, right?
Perhaps I'm just indulging in something altogether darker, an unbalanced glimpse into the mind of someone whose dark thoughts fuel little else but their cousins. I find myself more choked up than conversational if I want to talk to anyone about it, and the only persons who seem to read into are either too moody themselves to be able to help, or too busy. I certainly can't blame their schedule, but I do mourn their lack of attention. Or perhaps I'm just pushing them away hard enough so that it seems they aren't helping. If misery loves company, why do I tend to shut things away?
In any case, I can't help but regard myself as some kind of child. Staring longingly into the Dickens-esque window, seeing all sorts of warm, glowing normalcy to contrast my erratic and darkening mood and feeling like a child out in the snow. It's probably as inaccurate as it is overblown, but can I help feeling this way? It seems my subconscious isn't giving me a choice in the matter. Perhaps Oliver Twist would be a better comparison. Instead of soup, I look longingly at a warm pot of choices. "Can I have some more?"
Maybe this tired feeling of abandonment is nothing but a function of my own mind, but I can't help wondering if it could just leave me to my own damned devices and function like a normal human being? Instead, I wonder for fleeting instants what it would be like to stop worrying so much about the future, my relationships, friendships, and companions. Maybe, just maybe, find some abstract sense of closure in suddenly finding myself at a close, instead of just the issues.
It's unfair to my friends, my family, and everyone whom I know would miss me, but I can't help feeling like they wouldn't. Even so far as to say that they wouldn't care.
Such dramatic gestures do have the comforting appeal of truly learning who cares, and to what degree, but even just thinking these thoughts sickens me to my very moral core. However sickening, am I not a horrible person for even thinking them?
Be it Dickens or Twist, I just wish I didn't feel so very, very out to sea. Yet, as I sit here and look at the towers of text above and below me, I imagine all of the prospective employers and potential futures for my admittedly young life looking at me much more alike a liability than a potential hire. In even considering presenting these words, sickening as they are, could drive away my friends in flocks and droves. In so much as thinking the thoughts these represent would announce my candidacy for a textbook case of abnormal psychology of some flavor or another... Hell, perhaps some form of insanity alone for using a writing blog as a LiveJournal page.
I have to feel that I'm lambasting my future with each line of text, yet feel like it's unfair to present myself in any other way. Stephen Fry himself contends with similar notions in his recent autobiography, though he has years of experience and professionalism from which to draw, whereas all I have as a future looking more bleak by the very characters I type.
It probably says something about my character - or perhaps just my mood - in that I don't feel it's particularly important at the moment.
August Wilson once said "Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness ... Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength."
If that is the case, then why am I so very weak?