DIARY OF A BRINE SHRIMP
I am a terrible person. I hide my pathological indifference behind a façade of congeniality. I drift into people and I ruin their lives.
Except for Her. She would not let me ruin Her life.
Everyone soon annoys me.
Except for Her.
Can you comprehend how lonely I really am? Inside I’m a castaway on an iceberg floating in a perpetual night “starless and Bible black” like that song says.
I burn only on this page. For Her.
What is wrong with me? I accuse god for this, for what is me. I then hope that in death there is nothing, just like I think that just one good night’s sleep will make all the difference. It doesn’t. There is always something. I bark at something unseen.
What will become of me? Well, I mean, I know the answer to that in the graveyard, but what I mean is: when do I win the lottery of my own purpose? Is that really problematic?
Mendacity may be the system we live in but disappointment is my address.
I grow weary. It is late. Or maybe it is early. I nod over the well of sleep. What can I draw from the well this time? The fluid truth? Certainly not freedom from what I am: A Terrible Person, god’s gift to you all.
Except to Her.
Am I just an expendable brine shrimp? Don’t brine shrimp deserve an answer from god either?
Maybe I’m not a brine shrimp! Maybe I’m something smaller: a Black Hole! Sucking-in whatever draws near, letting escape no light, only a theory, spewing an existence out into yet another dimension. A dream.
Not Her dream.
With that truth (and of course it just has to be the one immutable truth in my life) I am at the top of my emotional Mount Everest. Oh, so they don’t call it Mount Everest anymore? I do. It is so promising: Mount Ever Rest.
Nothing else matters. Why the Hell is that so? Ha! “The Hell”. Fuck me; I just answered my own question. We all answer our own question, don’t we?
I just wish I could have been Her answer.
Now I am violent tantrums, a tantric beast, raging at the futile attraction, clawing anyone who dares to come too close. It is futile to rage, I know. Rage begets regret. Indifference is devoutly to be wished. Indifference like a stomach digesting what it has been fed. But wait, stomachs vomit. I have the same right, don’t I? Does that make me a terrible person?
I want peace and contentment but I have evolved unbalanced, falling forward kicking and screaming and lashing out and being hit. Poor me. I reject me. Deal with it or walk away into darkness.
It is crowded in the darkness. Relationships with people are based on the trinity: sex, drugs, or money. Or any combination thereof. Since you wonder, there are seven relationships possible.
Except with Her.
What is my relationship with Her? Null, imaginary, open like a wound?
Little white goats graze in the golden grasses on the steep hill up the other side of my dirt road. I think of angels in heaven. I’m over here tapping this SOS into my netbook, drifting in and out with the country western radio station. I think of a dark night in the vast desert, sitting inside the luminous tent of a little fire, listening to a pocket radio reaching for a country western station whispering from another state. I had no word for what all that made me feel. Years later I discovered and claimed for that feeling the Portuguese word “saudade”
a deep emotional state of nostalgic or deeply melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing will never return.
Pleasure is absence of pain I always say now. What is hope? Is revered hope a biological mechanism like the breathing reflex, sine qua non? A Hail Mary when your alleged soul is forth and down?
It is said that hope dies last. I am a lone figure in the lamplight of a train platform, looking up and down the cold hard rails, hearing the distant mourning of a train whistle.
Did I miss my train? Someone behind me whispers, “Saudade?”
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