DIARY OF A BRINE SHRIMP

brine shrimp

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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