Monday, March 30, 2015

Ode to Waking Up Crazy Again

This coming Friday, Extra Good Friday, will be my first day off in nearly three solid weeks of working. So obviously, I haven't had a whole lot of time to think, but I've been riding this roller coaster of emotional bliss versus shut-down. I've entered the hysteria, and on the other end of the spectrum, I've been sent home on my twelfth hour because I couldn't stop my midnight from coming, and I had basically turned back into a pumpkin, leaving one of my silver wedge sneakers on the steps of MOSI. Steampunk Cinderella covered in bloom sauce.

I am exceptionally tired. And when I get a moment to reflect, it's rough. 

Ladies and gentlemen, the black spots are back.

And I have every opportunity to finally start taking care of things, but I feel as if I'm on my way out of here too soon. I like my jobs and I like the people here, but I am having trouble existing where I am. There is still some part of me that believes that this is all just a dream. This isn't real. It isn't real. It's not real, because it isn't how things were supposed to go and I can't let myself fail like this, I won't. I'm not even doing anything. I don't want to be a Human Being. I want to be a Human Doing. 

As I type this, though, I can hear every ounce of sharp-tongued advice that I would relay to anybody else saying these things to me. So, it's not the way you planned it. Big deal. You're a gypsy. Move on. Adapt. You're not done yet. You're fine. 

Still, some days greet me with grief. Clemson University, having siphoned its last bullshit dime from my teasing pockets, will hopefully leave me alone now. I don't want much to do with it for the foreseeable future. Regardless, I'm left with the glaring reality that I probably can't ever let go of it. I fell deeply in love with everybody there, and I miss you with the searing desperation that I feel when I miss a step on the stairs in that sinking, sickly sharp, deceitful millisecond of panic.

I peaked early without knowing it. And now, everything else is a joke. On my good days, as I've mentioned, I'll make plans and I'll get excited and I'll trace the roads on the maps in my head and in my heart. I'll praise my wild spirit. I'll thank the good Lord for the Sun and everything that life-giving star can do. But regardless of the ways by which I know I'm blessed or the opportunities for growth that I have, it isn't enough. It's an awkward break, and I do not take breaks. It's an admission of defeat. It's unacceptable. I want more, and it's not coming fast enough. I don't know what I'm doing; I can't do anything. It's the fucking end, that's all. I burned out and I've fizzled out and I'm already gone.

Sometimes I'll close my eyes, driving in post-rush Tampa, to feel the wind wash over my entire self. And if one evening I crash into steel and concrete under the sparkling lights and the settling sunset layers and the silhouetted palms, I'll just wake up from this haze. I'll be me, rewind four years, secretly insane on the floor in my room with a hammer and all of my rage in shattered pieces surrounding my shaking body. I'll prove myself right. It was all just a dream.

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