Saturday, December 13, 2014

If I Tell You That I Am Nothing, Just Go With It

That's right. Don't argue with me. Don't tell me about how much I mean to you, or Jesus, or somebody else, or the universe (although I genuinely appreciate it, and I love you too, and I'll be much more likely to accept that gift when I'm in a different state of mind. For now, thank you.) Go with it. Give me a "right on" or a high five or a nod or gently tap your glass to mine. Cheers to the abyss, friends; let's dive right in.

Right now, I am absolutely nothing. Right now, my life is meaningless and sedentary. Right now, I take drugs to make me sleep more, but it's less of an escape than I want. It's a restless series of naps interrupted by sadness or my feet getting too clammy or my arms getting too warm or I really have to pee or the bright flashes of light that happen when I close my eyes and just will not go away. The alternative to this, when I'm feeling better less dizzy, is to stare at screens all day and pretend to be real. (I'm almost sorry for that; I know that I tend to make my ridiculous life irritatingly public and I understand that I've essentially flaunted my socially unacceptable behavior like some model strutting down a runway. But I'm desperate to find other humans like me, so bear with me and my candid conglomerates for a bit longer, please?) I can make a delicious quiche, though, and I guess that's real enough.

What if this life is actually an in-between; a prison? What if it is purgatory for those of us who are only spirits, for whom a body is unnatural? We've been losing bodies left and right, folks, and it's hard on us because we can't always see the spirits left behind, or hold them. But we have been losing bodies, bodies only. People who I love as well as the loves of my loves have been shutting their bodies down, permanently. Out of a different vein, I hope, I'd readily donate mine. Body snatchers, come snatch it up. I am a wild spirit when I'm healthy, and I don't want to be trapped anymore; see, I've got places to go. If our spirits are eternal, then they've already transcended dimensions because our universe had a beginning, and it is finite. If we are infinite, then we are timeless and we are able and we aren't constrained to the only dimensions that are observable by our physical bodies. This body is an awful constraint, my skin a tapestry that I've had painted with needles to remind me what might still exist inside, outside.

The redeeming quality to this purgatorial life comes from the glittering beauty of the creation that surrounds us, and then the things that are invisible. Things like memories and dreams, our capacity to design and wonder, and the moments when I can tangibly feel ethereal fingers running down my spine, offering comfort, radiating, whispering "I'm still here" and things like that. Still here, even after my mortal nothingness gets caught making loud demands towards heaven. Shouting demands, like I'm even anything, crossing my arms over my hardened exterior and secretly hoping for a new mercy in the morning.

Still, I wish my sleep were deeper. My medicine wasn't designed to do that. No escape.

But perhaps this season was designed to make me as small as possible, as nothing as possible. I have little utilitarian value, absolutely no financial value, and I can barely exist where I am at any given moment. I have been bled bone-dry while riding this cycle of worthlessness, knowing what I need to do and finding its possibility just barely out of reach, then deeming myself unworthy of getting better, fine. And the thing is, I don't really want your suggestions. That is, I'm not prepared to receive them. There are certainly many very small, very doable things that could make things seem a little bit better for the time. But that's just it; it only makes things seem better, and seem is not worth my suddenly available time. I won't leave my bed for anything so shallow. 

My mom told me that even though there's not much I can do right now, she still wishes for me to have a nice time at home. And I can't give her anything back; there's nothing I can say to that. It breaks my ravaged heart.

What kills me, or rather what makes me want to end this whole charade entirely, is the fact that I was not designed to fritter away my 24th year. I should be free and laughing and thriving and dancing and learning, my God, I should be learning the things that I really, really wanted to learn. I went away to learn, and instead I turned into nothing.


Well. No use crying over nothing, I suppose. It's just...nothing.

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