The onset of panic spurred by sudden alienation has finally subsided and returned once again to a livable equilibrium. Although in varying degrees, I repeatedly succumb to the possibility of beneficial human interaction when I know my rightful place to be solitary. Such a dream-like tromp will one day break me, irreparable, as each failed instance further chips away the protective cover I sustain myself within. My susceptibility is pure foolery and I cannot trust myself enough to remain level-headed when offered that which is desired but unwieldy; I fall apart.
And so sequestered, I return to the one reliable outlet (and inlet): the written word. There I am safe. There, my environment can be controlled. I now find myself writing and reading more profusely than I have in years. I can’t say that things are necessarily better now (in many respects, unspoken, quite worse), but I find myself less affected, more manageable, and stable. Perhaps this can be made into a life after all.
***
I don’t need anyone. Is such a statement defensive or liberating? Is it a delusional lie? Is it fear? Is it a bold stance for independence or a sign of just how wounded and alone I feel, scraping together what little dignity I have left into an obvious misappropriation? In part, I willfully go looking to get hurt, dragging myself into situations in which I know the destructive outcome. But is it out of enjoyment or punishment? Maybe my foolery really isn’t so at all: I rarely let on just how perceptive I am, how much I foresee the consequences but cannot (or will not?) occlude the momentum of my behavior. Frightfully, I pursue certain poor choices just to prove myself right in my perceptions, and unfortunately, I’m usually right. But could that also mean that I subconsciously partake in creating those negative consequences? I’m reactive. My only strength is defense. I wouldn’t know what to do if I wasn’t struggling against something. Usually such battles are internal and there the outcomes can be beneficial; the danger lies in those which are external and that is why I withdraw from interaction, to purge myself of this bad habit.
And so sequestered, I return to the one reliable outlet (and inlet): the written word. There I am safe. There, my environment can be controlled. I now find myself writing and reading more profusely than I have in years. I can’t say that things are necessarily better now (in many respects, unspoken, quite worse), but I find myself less affected, more manageable, and stable. Perhaps this can be made into a life after all.
***
I don’t need anyone. Is such a statement defensive or liberating? Is it a delusional lie? Is it fear? Is it a bold stance for independence or a sign of just how wounded and alone I feel, scraping together what little dignity I have left into an obvious misappropriation? In part, I willfully go looking to get hurt, dragging myself into situations in which I know the destructive outcome. But is it out of enjoyment or punishment? Maybe my foolery really isn’t so at all: I rarely let on just how perceptive I am, how much I foresee the consequences but cannot (or will not?) occlude the momentum of my behavior. Frightfully, I pursue certain poor choices just to prove myself right in my perceptions, and unfortunately, I’m usually right. But could that also mean that I subconsciously partake in creating those negative consequences? I’m reactive. My only strength is defense. I wouldn’t know what to do if I wasn’t struggling against something. Usually such battles are internal and there the outcomes can be beneficial; the danger lies in those which are external and that is why I withdraw from interaction, to purge myself of this bad habit.
No comments:
Post a Comment