I can’t decide whether everything is perfect or completely empty. From a zen perspective, everything’s going pretty swimmingly, except for the messy apartment—or, to be specific, the dishes I just can’t get around to doing, and the clothes in my room I really can’t find time to put away. I mean, I’ll do all those things tomorrow. I’m a busy girl.
So I have a conversation with Brad that is either awkward or good. I suspect I like him, in the way you like someone you’ve spoken a full 2 conversations with, both of which were short but polite and containing above-average amounts of possibly meaningful, soulful-style eye contact. I appear absolutely smooth and cool until I start speaking; then it becomes obvious that I don’t really know what to say most of the time, even if my jackets are always gorgeous and my posture is pretty hot. Unfortunately, it’s the words that spew from my mouth that are the problem—actually, the problem is not the words they are so much as the words they’re not. It’s the position of weakness from which they originate.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like Brad.
It’s that whole zen/empty thing. I’m not sure what to blame: my medication, my psychology, the fact that I haven’t been reading much lately, the fact that my best friend is currently on another continent and let me down in 2 ways so symbolic, the time of year, God giving me a break from decades of ridiculous emotional drama... I can’t tell anymore.
This is good, right? This time last year I was less than a fortnight away from the worst emotional experience in my life. I would become so gloriously happy so easily, yet so disastrously depressed as well. I was not “bipolar.” Just ... easily polarised. I fell in love easily and recklessly. I wanted desperately. I suffered from insomnia some weeks, extreme lethargy marked by beautiful 12-hour sleep-sessions the next. I was not happy, but I felt. There was no doubt I was alive.
And now. I know I’m happy—I tell myself I’m happy. I seem happy. I’m okay with dancing in public now. I still love a few things with certifiable passion: ‘Lost’, running, Jesus, vodka/cranberry combos, sleeping in. Et cetera.
I haven’t cried in months, unless you count a couple of tears on account of Lorelei singing that damn song to Luke tonight—I hope you saw that, ‘cause it was possibly the most beautiful moment in Gilmore Girls history (and trust me, I’ve seen every. single. episode. Like, thrice). So it’s a zen trade-off, right? This is healthy, this stillness inside, this calm.
I used to be an ocean, see: deep, polluted, pulled by forces utterly beyond my control. Now I am a lake. Freshwater. Clear. Still. This is better. This has to be better. It’s the only water I have.
2 comments:
I think (and I say this with all of the experience eighteen years of existence has to offer) that we have to go through these cycles of deeply feeling and somewhat feeling, because without one we wouldn't appreciate the other. It could also be our minds giving us a break from ourselves for a while. Regardless, life is not so stable that we can say last year I saw there, now I'm here, and I'll be here for a while. We can be here now, but that might change altogether tomorrow. Sorry if that made no sense.
A calm, clear lake? What better pool of water for someone to just cannonball into and utterly ripple things up? Give it time. Like everyone always tells me (myself included), "it always hits you when you're not looking and least expect it."
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