Limbo! Not Just a Gravitationally Challenging Game

Recently I have found myself in a sort of multifaceted limbo.  So many components of my life are neither here nor there; not one way or another; they are limboing.  Yes.  As a matter of fact, I can make that noun into a verb if I feel so inclined, I'm that good.

And limbo, while far less distressing than the rabbit hole, is just an odd state.  It is a hanging state- like those little marshmallows in that horrifying jello-salad… thing.  You know the one I'm talking about.  That marshmallow is stuck, doomed.  It has been completely stripped of itself and it's self-control.  It can't sink; it can't swim; it can't move.  It can only wait, forever suspended in pinkish-orange goo, to be devoured.

That's limbo.

And, not that this will come as an extraordinary surprise, I'm no good at limbo.  I just don't do it well; I am not a marshmallow.  I suppose it's the same principle as being sick- I don't care if get better or worse, I just cannot sit there.  Meanwhile, I don't care if I move forward or backward, just let me move- sink, swim, or be devoured… just. let. me. move.  Let me shift in some meaningful direction- or at least let me pick a direction and start wading toward it.

Mixed metaphors anyone?

I'm pretty sure I'll get to a point somewhere in all this nonsense.

Oh yes, here it is…

It's not an easy thing, having to watch your world happen around you. And before everyone goes all up in arms and tells me it's my own fault, and I can absolutely be active in my own world, happening in my own world… that that's the point of it being my world, just do something about it (yes, I can also anticipate counter arguments)- go back to the notion of limbo.

Limbo is absolutely what I'm describing: some jello-like force that literally contains you within your own space.  Because of this force, this thing that is outside of your control, you become immobile and unable to participate in your surroundings.

And that's where I'm at.

Until next time, dearests.

If Your Own Being Sickens You

Then how do you live with yourself?

The past few weeks have been a flurry of non activity and activity- of working, waiting, wondering, and worrying.  I have been all over this adopted town of mine- to Food Festivals, to new bars, to old haunts.  I have sequestered myself inside in a heap of irrational loneliness.  I've had grand times and growing distress and all of the normal day-to-day nonsense of human life.

Normal.

Day-to-day.

And there's the pinch, the twist, the slash.

In all of this lovely normal there's been a growing darkness, the metaphysical hiccup- the demon that sits on both shoulders and waits. Until you have your guard down; until you feel happy and feel like maybe you can let your guard down; until you have something for it to really play with.  That little thing waits until it can do the maximum amount of harm.

Which is when it strolls up your shoulder and begins to whisper in your ear.

Not good enough. 

Never good enough.  

You should be ashamed of yourself. 

You are worth nothing. 

And the scariest bit of this little demon is how convincing it is, how clear it's voice rings.  The truth he speaks is not his but an echo of your own.  The little demon, the beast, is a part of you whether you want him or not (or her or not).  It is you, the worst of you, the very most fracture of you- but put back together in the very most terrible of ways.

It, he, she, is what makes you you- but what makes you you in the ways that you fight against and struggle against; swear at; damn; curse.

And he's come a-whisperin', Dearhearts. He's come indeed.

The Odd-Numbered Wheel.

Except for the dog, I am alone in a hotel room.  It is something o'clock in the morning and through the thin building walls I can hear someone singing Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen.

Every now and then, I am confronted with the weirdness of lonely.

It is the weirdness of standing in a roomful of people and being certain that you have developed the power of invisibility; the weirdness of being able to move in and out of crowds, around them seamlessly because you are more shadow than substance.  'Going through the motions' was never more apropos.

Lonely is the weirdness of watching yourself change; feeling helpless to stop it; and then plotting your own demise in a vain, pitiable, pathetic attempt to counteract it.  Lonely is knowing yourself too well for your own good- both lonely and knowledge are simultaneously insidious and challenging and terrifying. Your Self, after all, is not a good one.

Lonely is the weirdness of a dream scream- opening your mouth wide to cry out, call out, beg for help… only to find that you have no voice. You are rendered helpless by silence.

It is the weirdness of a self fulfilling prophecy.  I am lonely, I am disheartened, so I separate myself in an attempt to keep those around me from getting stained by the strength and pull of my emotion.  Which makes me lonelier and isolated.  It makes me a masterpiece.

Lonely is a reality check.  And a rather potent one, at that.  It's that poke in the back; pinch on the arm; flick on the shoulder.  'Watch yourself,' it says, 'cause nobody else is.'

And with that.  A walk for the pup.

Until next time, dear ones.