I’m coming to the realization that on so many different levels I am either a remarkably calloused and demanding individual or there is a screw truly loose (several more likely) upstairs. It’s the only thing that can, or would, account for such indiscriminate moments of self indulgent burbling and behaviour as leads me to regularly overlook the concerns of those loving figures in my life. Unless I am well and truly an actual certifiable dick.
I’m even finding a flair for it in the fact that I tend to fixate on my own reactions and actions in situations – pre-emptively justifying some flagrant display of asinine “my way or the highway” choice making prowess with a fixated smile plastered in disregard on my face (which I will only later realize to my own chagrin). If I were to explore the world around me, step outside of this little glass room and observe that what I previously represented as fun was actually a brazen push off of my wife’s emotions and verbalized needs (supplanted by my own), irresponsible actions that drained coffers and put us at risk, and a worthless extension of a wonderful day into the doldrums and mire of a night huddled at opposite sides of the van.
Somewhere along the lines there is a lynchpin moment – like when I say, “wow, we are getting along great recently!” Klaxons should go off inside my head that any moment now my own self-destruct sequence just silently clicked on and started down. If I can chase back that singular moment as it happens and repetitiously drill it into my head that this is the moment where a choice can mean the validation of goodwill and genuine happiness being experienced and a continuation thereof, or disaster and a repeat of the same overplayed mistakes once again.
It seems intuitive that anyone would want to sustain positivity and goodvibes that are making themselves felt in an interpersonal dynamic – so why does my brain blank to suddenly and with seeming intent when it comes to taking the basic neccessary steps to do so? I don’t like the burned out husk of joy that is left when I don’t, no one does. If I have to be self serving enough to recognize the discomfort that the miss of that moment will bring to myself in order to identify the external impact that will precede, so be it.
I really hope I’m not just a dick. That would really be terrible.
Not so specific is the way that it should feel. Like a chronically ill patient who has that stomach twist around that nobody can identify. It’s probably just gas pains, or a thought caught in between sternum and outlet, one or the other seems most likely, but who knows at the end.
Hyperbolic is the chance meadow we sit in, a graduated course outline on desperate measures and abject failures coated in sin. Nothing but molehills as far as the eye can see, though the weather on the far side is anything but sunny, I’ve heard wind and snow.
That’s the kind of character building exercise I’m all down for, you know how they mean. Where it walks up dizzying heights and then crashes into the burrows beneath. Even rodent beasties are terrifying if given the right scale and these ones have eyes the size of saucers, lips peeled back in screamless fright, tongues lashing about with tastebuds signaled that there’s blood in the water for their sharkish moods.
There’s even games that outfit gumballs with the kind of attire to tackle this kind of noise, give ’em gauntlets and the like so as to hack and smite. What about limit broken soldiers with shuddering penflaps and a sackful of ink leaking all over the place. What about the child outside blubbering with an appeal that it can’t sound out between the emotional climaxes stuck to the morass of its shattered soul?
What then are we to do? A minefield abounds and there’s literal fancy footwork needed to parade across the land, I’d hazard event a courtesy or two to be handled as appropriate.
Bloody topographers got it all wrong this time mate, time to ship back the other direction and pray for anything but the doldrums to keep the ship going.