Maybe it’s the effects of over one hundred odd
daily blogging comments. Where my
imagination has just been exhausted.
For whatever the reason, the thought that
just maybe I need to revisit why I write has arrived; more specifically
blog.
Perhaps it’s due to having my concentration disrupted with the need to focus
on other things beyond commenting on flittering ideas and concepts? I hit this point of thinking, I just didn’t have anything I wanted to
say anymore. Like crying so much over a topic that suddenly I realize I’m
tired of crying. But in this case it was
addressing thoughts that flitter in and out of my skull and then comment about
them as affected living. I thought,
perhaps I wanted to write because I had an unfulfilled need to be recognized ~
and heard. If I could capture that then I’d feel appreciated and through those
feelings associate feeling accepted? You
see, I was a psychology major, I learned about such things. I studied enough to get mixed up on symptoms
and what they meant, or could mean; finding situations as a sort of co-conspiracy
between DNA and the environment.
I’m
more prone to consider behavior as something that either doesn’t matter because
my genes are against me, or that my living situation is such that I’m unable
(or unwilling) to make sweeping changes to my environment. Then there’s testing and more testing to
suggest there’s a correlation but no cause, as in defining with certainty, one
thing is the culprit, and that’s to be sure; which brings me to my favorite default
suspicion of ~ it all depends.
Sad
part about that last one is there is absence of answers to all of life’s really
important questions. Be it law or
physics the bottom line always bolts down to the notion of ‘it depends’. Which
is just another way of shrugging shoulders and muttering “I don’t know”
I
was going to send a note off to my writing buddy, but realized that most times
when I do that, I either alarmed others about my mental wellness or I get
responses of Pollyanna gibberish that make me physically ill. Note to self, never tell anyone my truth
unless I want to invite their version and we’ll have a fest of hurting one
another’s feelings over misunderstanding.
Or if I have to be honest about anything personal, always end it with
‘it depends.’ (aka emergency exit) That
way I’m shielded from overly concerned fixers who want to give me advice they
themselves never follow.
When
I was younger I used to resort to humor to get out of this dark place. Then
discovered I was raised in a house where humiliation was the source of
humor. When I realized that, I realized
being a hack-bully was no real life calling and best to leave it behind. At least that’s what I tell myself. I read once where humor relied on three main
principals: The unexpected, irony, and
absurdity. So when I tried to fit
humiliation into the mix, the best I could do was to surmise that the
unexpected injury of others was ironic to the absurd idea that people cared
about other people’s welfare. Another
study I read concluded that laughter was an emotional release from excessive
stress. So humor was the release value,
if you will, of living terror. That kind
of makes sense when I think about riding a roller coaster or when I asked for a
date.
Ours
is a never ending quest to get control of that incessant giggling before we
make a fool of ourselves. I know it’s
coming, but I’d like to believe that if mercy were related to any comic
principals, it’d be irony of it all. A
bus load of clowns is not funny to the infinitum degree; it’s just spontaneous
combustion waiting for oxygen to burst into flame. As the ancient text tell us, that in life,
learn to breathe.
I, am amazed at how many times I had to
revisit this comment and convert ‘we’ into I. [just when the pie hits me in the
face]
Picture fades to black.
No comments:
Post a Comment