I had gone cold and from my dry throat I could feel something aching to come out. I went to the sink, my face all aflush. I was ready for some real heavy-duty non-medical pain now. Sure enough it came...which is why at 3 am I was thinking about the travesties of life and trying to throw up. Damn, I could not even bring up anything decent.
As I looked in the bathroom mirror, I was forced to confront myself with just one question: do I always have to react to everything? Why does one assume that words said in mellow moments are meant to be taken seriously or as permanent seals of your destiny?
I am tired of the “You are kind of different” line in every sphere of my life. Because that is a nice way to place me on some high rock and meet me when the urge for adventure sports creeps into a routine life. I know I was not designed for mundanity as it is understood, but I need my simpering smiles for the soul just like everyone else.
I know that this is a contradiction. How often have I protested against these niches. And I protest again as I read words that I am sure have been uttered so many times before to so many others -- Must one like being judged on a scale?
Must one feel good that you have touched people “where others have always missed”? Is this an archery contest? A hit-the-bull's-eye at some funland? Is being “a maverick” not a cul de sac? Does one want to be that, knowing well that the next step is falling short and being told, “Oh, so you too want to be like the rest?”
How does one say that there are some things that are done for everyone, but they must be done in special ways? From a distance crystal and glass look pretty much the same. So even if crystal is told it is crystal, but after being informed about the wine being drunk from the glass, and the glass with its long stem standing there as a reminder of its presence, it defeats the purpose.
A Lalique vase filled with salty water can do nothing for flowers that have weathered many storms and prefer to wither away.
Life is just a delete button away. Promises were never rose gardens, memories are not written in indelible ink.
In the dark, I reach out for the water and pick out a tablet, hoping it is the sedative. Won't make a difference. All these are placebos to make us believe we are alive. I pop the pill, water drops spilling on my chin. I shut my eyes.
I think sleep broke the dream I had...