I've been staring into space
It's dark out there
I see things
Swimming in the murky depths
Thoughts melting into fears
The future clawing its way up
Out of the past's long-dead grave
The same old stories
With the same old endings
And it's all still as scary
I've been staring into space
Seeing if I can spot myself
A happy me in a happy morrow
It's dark out there
Maybe it's night there
But then the shadows I see in the depths
Do not comfort, do not ease my worry
I've been staring into space
The moon's bright as ever
Its dark side is still the darkest
It's still scarred all over
Beyond its numbing light
Things do swim in the dark
They might be quiet, but I see them
Beyond the moonlight, in my morrow
I've been staring into space
I've been thinking too much
It's all coming together
It's all falling apart
It's dark out there
What remains does swim by
Dismembered, tentacled
It does not comfort
It does not ease my worry
And still, I stare into space
I can't help but stare into space
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Staring into Space
Friday, April 13, 2012
30... 31...
One year, and so much has changed. I hit 30 with a sense of panic and desperation. With most important life's goals unattained, (I just typed gaol instead of goal... wow, talk about Freudian slips!) I was at that juncture where the mortality of life hits you and you realize that you might never get to live the life you always wanted. My book was still unpublished--a much-edited manuscript collecting digital dust and self-doubt. I was still in a full-time job and was still working late nights and weekends, spending what free time I could get catching up on my sleep backlog. My relationships with various significant others were all beginning to suffer the neglect I was inflicting on them.
The imaginary nervous imp representing my life expectancy gulps as it examines the statistics: I smoke, I drink, I'm overweight (thanks to my love of food in general and red meat in particular), my work, life and relationships are wrought with stress, and I have a genetic legacy that's pure murder (two granddads lost to heart attacks before they hit the big five-oh, and one grandmom lost to cancer before I grew up enough to remember her face; the other grandmom died a slow, agonizing death and just passed away at 90-something... I'm not sure what I prefer any more) I might have a few years left, but that's more luck than anything else. Not much time left to do much in, and given how much is left (EVERYTHING), not much hope for getting much done either!
Perspective is the great purifier. One thing can change, and everything can look so very different!
I hit 31. My book is still unpublished, but I have an incredible literary agent who was kind of enough to sign me on, and is cheerfully optimistic that we'll soon taste success. Based on that one event, I took my life and turned it around. I quit my full-time job for a consulting role, just so I would have more time to write. I took some risks and created opportunities that would get me closer to my agent, the publishers, and a writing career. The divorce came to a (relatively) painless end (unrelated, but fortuitous). The relationships are better, overall; ambient de-stressing, I guess. The imp is no less nervous as the statistics still seem ominous, though I've started toning down the excesses in some, if not most, departments. The genetic legacy I can't change. When grandparents gang up on you, there's little you can do. The rest of my unattained wishlist still deals with status quo, but the items on it glow with hope, beaming up at #1 who's slowly coming to life.
I might still kick the bucket in a few years, but now I can joke about the projected Mayan end of the world (that's one joke with an expiry date). I'm going to die a published author (or at least an author with recognized potential), and that's better than dying with a neglected manuscript no one knew about. Alternately, I might live the whole big life (marriage, bestsellers, world travel, kids, cynicism v2.0, arthritis etc.) and might die a slow, agonizing death at 90-something. I don't know that I want to lose my senses, motor skills and bowel control before I go. But then, such is life. You never know what the end's like and you can't really flip the pages to find out (point is, if you could, would you?)
Am I happy? On some days, yes. Does 31 feel better? With the new perspective glasses, yes. Is 32 going to be even better? I hope so; better is always good (is that an oxymoron?) Is this what's called growing up or can I just not deal with failure? I don't know. Am I overthinking this? Probably. Should I stop? Yes.
The imaginary nervous imp representing my life expectancy gulps as it examines the statistics: I smoke, I drink, I'm overweight (thanks to my love of food in general and red meat in particular), my work, life and relationships are wrought with stress, and I have a genetic legacy that's pure murder (two granddads lost to heart attacks before they hit the big five-oh, and one grandmom lost to cancer before I grew up enough to remember her face; the other grandmom died a slow, agonizing death and just passed away at 90-something... I'm not sure what I prefer any more) I might have a few years left, but that's more luck than anything else. Not much time left to do much in, and given how much is left (EVERYTHING), not much hope for getting much done either!
Perspective is the great purifier. One thing can change, and everything can look so very different!
I hit 31. My book is still unpublished, but I have an incredible literary agent who was kind of enough to sign me on, and is cheerfully optimistic that we'll soon taste success. Based on that one event, I took my life and turned it around. I quit my full-time job for a consulting role, just so I would have more time to write. I took some risks and created opportunities that would get me closer to my agent, the publishers, and a writing career. The divorce came to a (relatively) painless end (unrelated, but fortuitous). The relationships are better, overall; ambient de-stressing, I guess. The imp is no less nervous as the statistics still seem ominous, though I've started toning down the excesses in some, if not most, departments. The genetic legacy I can't change. When grandparents gang up on you, there's little you can do. The rest of my unattained wishlist still deals with status quo, but the items on it glow with hope, beaming up at #1 who's slowly coming to life.
I might still kick the bucket in a few years, but now I can joke about the projected Mayan end of the world (that's one joke with an expiry date). I'm going to die a published author (or at least an author with recognized potential), and that's better than dying with a neglected manuscript no one knew about. Alternately, I might live the whole big life (marriage, bestsellers, world travel, kids, cynicism v2.0, arthritis etc.) and might die a slow, agonizing death at 90-something. I don't know that I want to lose my senses, motor skills and bowel control before I go. But then, such is life. You never know what the end's like and you can't really flip the pages to find out (point is, if you could, would you?)
Am I happy? On some days, yes. Does 31 feel better? With the new perspective glasses, yes. Is 32 going to be even better? I hope so; better is always good (is that an oxymoron?) Is this what's called growing up or can I just not deal with failure? I don't know. Am I overthinking this? Probably. Should I stop? Yes.
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