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Sunday, Apr. 09, 2006 / 3:46 p.m. ~Pause and Possibility~ He asks if I don't think my life might be completely different in the future, if I don't think that everything could change, and I look back on the past five years, and then ten, and tell him all that has changed is that I am now financially solvent, not even mentioning the credit card debt I have amassed anew. It is payable, after all, and so are the taxes on last year's unemployment compensation, so I no longer worry. But I did not tell him that I still look for love, in spite of my rational mind telling me it does nothing more than weigh me down, this futile and endless search for some 'one', for 'the one', the one who can help me, or allow me to lean, encourage me, be my partner in whatever life is left for me. And then he talks about how when I'm seventy years old I'll look back on this time and think that forty-five was so very young, until I tell him I have no intention of living that long, that I won't be able to look in the mirror and see an old wrinkled me, I won't want to lose my faculties, and I tell him of the sunglasses incident from the other day, how I searched for them in my glove compartment in my car, how I worried I'd lost them, how I racked my brain trying to remember where I'd left them, when after all I was wearing them, they were right on my face. I don't want to be old, I never did, I never had any idea how long my life would keep going, it never seemed I was on any clear path, with any clear destination, that there was any sort of point to this at all, it was more a spontaneous surge of energy, sometimes mixed with long bouts of intense rest, as if it was needed to keep up with everything else. Aging just 'happened', and each year is harder than the last, each year seems to find me with less purpose than ever, no real goals, no set destination, nothing but dreams that are quite unfulfillable, wholly and completely unnatural and unrealistic, like I'm not even aware of what this life is all about, I'm just playing along, and not very well. I'd like to back out, I get tired of the game, I want to pack up my game piece and put it away, just withdraw, but then what? I was watching Oliver Stone's "The Doors" last night, the beginning Jim meets Pam portion, Jim telling Pam that he is obsessed with death, that life is hard, life is so painful, but death is an end to the pain, and then of course they kiss deeply and passionately and the camera pulls away as they make love on the rooftop where Jim is currently living, and I think yes, he was so right, but both take so much courage, and this is the part we all know, or at least think we do, better than the other. So, he tells me I am in charge here, and I need to figure out what to do and do it, like it's the easiest thing in the world, and then I hear about what he's doing with his life, and it sounds so perfect, so enviable, so desirable that my own indecision sickens me. He says I have so much talent, but he doesn't really know me at all, and I wonder how he has managed to form this opinion, and I denounce it as pure rubbish, trying to be appreciative of the compliment all the same, and then I think maybe he has a point, and maybe I could do this or that, and maybe people have been right about me all this time, those who have recognized something, those who have said the same thing he says now, but I still feel so lost, like I just don't see it, I only see side roads, forks, and I never know which direction to take. Nothing is clear, and there is such a fear of instability and insolvency, I cling to the known, the certain, the sameness as comfort, as all I know, and this is the death inside me. This stagnancy bred by complacency, this is the soul killing that I engage in regularly, however subconsciously, and then I wonder how I got here, and how it is I got so old, and I think how it's too late, really, for anything, and my mother read my palm, and I know she said I'd die when I was sixty-five, I have it in my head she is right, and this is why I won't be seventy, like he says, looking back and thinking how young I was now, then. Meanwhile, in a way I also cannot explain, I want him in my life, but he is filled with his own, there is no room for anyone else there. And I have a big empty space waiting to be filled. We are an odd pair, suited, but completely not. He makes me want, he fills me with desire for the unattainable, and this ruins everything I've worked so hard to become. It's a time to backtrack, and find a track, and plod forward on that track, maybe find a way to proceed a bit more gracefully, confidently, get to the point where I am doing exactly what I want, what I should, and be happy doing it, nothing missing from my life. He is the ultimate distraction, but in a way, it is possible after all, he is showing me what I need to see. Or, at least, I'd like to think so. Cost of the War in Iraq
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