Where I at?

A sign of the utter depths of my hubris, I apparently somehow believe that there are people out there in the cybervoid who might notice or care that I haven’t posted here for a long time, and thus I feel I ought to provide some explanation. Ha. Just writing it down makes me want to laugh. As if anyone would ever pay attention to this crap.

Well, as that last post may have tipped you off, my family pet had to be put down a while back. He was quite old. Aaaaaaand, I can’t look at the front page of this blog without choking up seeing his little puppy face, and I’m kind of tempted to delete that post entirely, particularly as I’m trying to put some distance between my real-life self and the Nútsjesmoar persona. This thought occurs to me. I’ve wasted almost a year of my life building up some online identity that:

A. no one really notices or cares about,

B. does little good for me or anyone else other than allow me a way to vent my secretive opinions and anxieties,

C. doesn’t really have much to do with who I am in real life, other than in terms of my private thoughts/feelings

D. has eaten up massive amounts of time I should have been working or doing real things with real people in the real world rather than sitting by myself in front of a screen feeling disconnected with reality,

E. has seriously screwed up my job, finances, relationships with family and friends, and my personal life in general

F. has emotionally and spiritually numbed me (perhaps on some level I desired this, especially during times of grief and personal challenge)

G. probably isn’t as funny as I think it is most of the time

 

Letter “F” particularly sticks out at me now. Last year and the year before that on September 8th, I went to my cousin’s grave on the anniversary of his birthday. This year I didn’t even go. It stuck in the back of my mind all day, but in my numbness I sought escape in other electronic diversions until the day was completely past, and it was too late and dark out to go to the graveyard. Over the past year or so, I’ve been increasingly vexed by strange and indescribable dreams of Lovecraftian abstractness, strange forms and formulas and realms of impossible geometry and freefalling motion juxtaposed with illogical dialogue and unfamiliar-yet-familiar characters, all adding up to a cacophonous paranoia-inducing milieu of freakitude. Upon waking from one of these dreams, I often feel, or am struck by the awful and overwhelming feeling that over the past 2 years or so I have become, less human. Something in me no longer wants to be human. Is this so? Did this come about in reaction to something, or was it always there hiding beneath the surface? Has this been the underlying theme of all my dreams, all the way back to childhood, and only recently I am coming to realize it? Am I mad? Am I losing all sanity? Will I ever be happy again? Is there any way to stop myself from going down this self destructive path? It fills me with dread.

Last night I dreamed about Mickey. For some reason he was alive again, but he could only stay around for a day. He was still old and miserable, and he wasn’t much fun. But God I loved having that dog around again for a few fleeting unreal moments. I fucking hate these kinds of dreams. I haven’t had a dream with William in it for a long time now. I wonder if that’s of my own doing? Have I really sublimated all my memories of him so completely? Is there any sense in which someone who tries so hard to forget or not think about someone they’ve lost can still be considered human? Is there any chance for redemption for such a monster?

 

So that, in a nutshell, is where I’m at right now.

Good on ya.

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