three related meta-pseudo-meta-rants about everything in particular
"At the round earth's imagined corners blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise..."
I want to be a hero--sans cape, powers, tights, sidekick, secret identity--a hero to someone. Not "society" or "people" or "they" or "them" or even "public" or "culture." I want to be a hero to someone who needs my heroism but doesn't demand it, who accepts it knowing that it's the most selfish thing I could possibly offer, who is appreciative of my offer--all of which are qualifications that, to this point, I've seen only partially realized in the someones in which I've invested. (And, as far as my knowledge extends, they may be impossible qualities--qualities that exist only in a perfect world, or so I'm told. If so, then, for now, I willfully evade reality--conscious that long term evasion means stagnation and stagnation means death and so on and on and on. If I truly am "hiding," then I prefer being hidden to facing what actually exists: a conglomerate of nihilistic, sad/is/tic pseudo-philosophies.) It's primal, almost, this sense of wanting to protect, to shield from the "thems" and "publics" and "theys" and ..., to provide for and to care for not in selfless, Platonic terms--but in full recognition that I would give my life to be the hero because I am selfish--not because their happiness comes before mine but because their happiness is mine. Not because I love but because I love.
What I think:
If you asked me to wait a year, I'd happily give you 10, 20, a lifetime. I would wait outside your window with an out of tune guitar that I couldn't even play and serenade with a tune an octave too high until my voice ceased acknowledging my desires. I would take being ignored and comforted and teased and ignored again. The sprinkler wouldn't bother me, nor the snow. I would, I would. If you asked.
What I feel:
Guilty. Anxious. Torn. Excited. Defeated.
What I realize:
That moving on means moving on. That I deserve. That the world, despite what the "theys" tell us, is not about suffering and hopelessness and despair. "That love sometimes occurs without pain or misery." That what I'm feeling is neither painful nor miserable--only gripping. That I have no idea how to enact the practical motions of "moving" "on"--from that, mind you, which never existed to "move" "on" from. That when I speak I have little chance of saying anything remotely close to what I want to say. That that isn't always a bad thing--except when it is.
What I do:
Learn. Take more chances than usual.
Creating friendships has never been my forte. It happens. I do not know how. When I try, it seems as if I'm being stilted, scripted, shady. I can't even imagine translating that awkwardness beyond establishing a friendship. I don't have the confidence and I don't have the social awareness. And so the words escape me.
"For, if above all these my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,
When we are there. Here on this lowly ground
Teach me how to repent..."