Melodramatic Demons

Is it possible to scribe any words
 in this day and age
 that ring not of melodrama and  woe-is-me ilk?

Is it not overplayed to quote any  poet
 in this state of affairs
 that doesn't sound trite and  conceited?


Lately, every time I get the urge to run my fingers across the keyboard in some fashion, I abruptly stop myself from doing so. There exists a little man in my head that stops me from forming these ragged strings of words. There is a little wheel that grinds to a halt upon striking the notion of adding to this blog...thing.

Ambivalence. At least from my understanding, is the word that describes what my head is brewing up.

I want to chronicle my thoughts and ideas. I want to be able to look back in the future and see what a terrible writer I was. Perhaps, in this possible future, I will consider myself a much stronger author. Regardless, I constantly stop myself from sharing the quotes and ideas that I find enlightening or fascinating.

Constant is the idea that I'm seething a putrid and pompous persona of myself. I feel as though I'm being melodramatic, all the time. What is this "black dog"? Do I even have a right to use the phrase? I want to characterize my demons and cast vivid imagery of these diabolic and metaphoric... things...

Do I appear as some beret-wearing, mascara-sporting, poetry-regurgitating beatnik of-a-sort? This there is no definite answer for. What's next for me, I think, is some somber form of interpretive dance or perhaps maybe some overworded, complicated, "artistic" monologue I act out naked on a stage.

It's art! I scream. Soak it in you thespians!

I don't think anyone really wants to watch me beat this long-dead horse anymore. Hell, even I'm growing tired of this trope. Part of me feels like I have more important ideas and concepts to try and elaborate on than those of people that just hashtag everything. Nothing gives me this right. I feel dirty and egotistical for thinking this way.

So here I sit, on my high horse.
I'm also beating the horse.
Understand that it's a high horse, but it's also dead.
I'm also forcing the horse to listen to my monologue about philosophy and a black dog.
Poor horse.

Do Dogs Have Uvulas?

Another spur of the moment blog thing. Also, dogs do not have uvulas.

I should learn by now.

I should learn not to place my happiness in other people. Feeling well enough as long as my foundations are stable. Foundations can't be built on the backs of friendships or romances, even the most resolute. The best of individuals will eventually let you down. Only human, we are all only human. The weight of our own lives is far too great to saddle the weight of others' lives in tandem.

I chronicle this. Once again I have allowed myself to build happiness on that of another person. I have no right to put my mood and battle on anyone else, willing or unwilling. Only in the shallow confines of this stupid blog do I find any rest from my own negative brain waves.


Life is/was going well.

Job I didn't mind, not great, but didn't mind.
Straight run of high marks in university, intro classes, but still.
New beautiful girl that seemed to be infatuated with me.
Friends, co-workers, customers, these relationships all seemingly going swimmingly.

Despite my best efforts to breathe worth into these ideas, concepts, I only find myself staring at the edge of a knife or a bottle of pills again. Why now? Why have I put my worth as a living specimen of humanity on someone else's scale? I toss my own measuring stick aside to use that of another.

So long have I been ahead of this monster... I let my guard down and now pay the price. The ferryman cometh and expects his token payment. Here I thought I had gotten away with a free ride, mistaken. Do not make light of your foe or underestimate your enemy. If this depression is my enemy, I was laughing in its face. I now understand that the thing doesn't take kindly to ridicule.

Enraged, it has caught back up with me. The Dog's maw howls agape as it mists foul-stenched breath against my face. I'm not sure what to do. It's this moment, this millisecond before the fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, that drags on the longest. Do I run? Do I fight? Do I give up?

Probably not the latter, hoping.

I grow so tired, but can not sleep.
Punishment.
Punishment for harboring positive thought.
Positive thought that I had the Dog licked, put in its proper place.
Perhaps its proper place is firmly latched onto my gullet, my windpipe.

I feel as though I'm only whining. I'm bitching and moaning because I am desperately seeking some like-minded individual to trapse into my life with their own tumor of a dog on their neck.

"Hello stranger, nice black furry tumor you have there on your neck," they remark. "Does the pain become bearable?"

To which I reply, "No, unfortunately not, fellow person of depressive discontent. The beast's grip has not relaxed one iota as of yet."

I imagine I'm wearing a monocle during this interaction. This is probably the lack of sleep typing. I'm beginning to notice how I make little to no sense of any of this.

A Brief Thought On Duality; Jubilant Depression

The simple comfort of another soul, of simple social interaction can prevent a heinous action.

Reaching out isn't always easy; sometimes you just want to suffer in silence. Secretly, we hope for someone gifted with clairvoyance to realize that we require saving.Then again, are we even worth saving? Are you? Am I?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Perhaps it's a great scientific, insane, cosmic experiment. Some must suffer so that others can experience joy. If you believe in duality, and I'm not sure if I do, then it makes some semblance of sense.

Right?

If I, a lonesome sufferer of the charcoal-colored canine, am suffering in my current state... maybe someone on the other side of the world, the universe, is experiencing great joy. Maybe the sadness of one individual and subsequent jubilance of another is some supernatural balancing act by the forces unknown.

Perhaps the state of my mind does serve a greater purpose. Would I willingly endure torture if I knew that someone else was having the best day of their life thanks in some part to me? I'd think so. Thinking so brings some form of relief to the darkness that rips and tears at every corner of my being, my essence.

An interesting concept.

A sad sort of teeter totter.

Provable?

Nope.

No light without shadow.
No pain without pleasure.
No sense without nonsense.
Life. Death.
Happy. Sad.

On Metaphorical Ramparts

“Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.” These are the brilliant and truth drenched words advocated by the lovely Brené Brown. What of vulnerability? Haven’t we been conditioned to construct indestructible ramparts for emotional defense? We continue to exist only because of our barricades in place to prevent pain and failure from befalling us.

            As a young man, especially a man that valued stoicism for the majority of my life, you may find it odd that I’d be an advocate for the overwhelming benefits of showing vulnerability. You may find it queer that anyone would want to be vulnerable in the first place. Why show your faults and flaws? It’s much easier to put up walls and protect yourself from the world that seemingly wants to swallow you whole.

            
     Vulnerability is being susceptible to physical or emotional injury. Being vulnerable is being susceptible to attack, or open to criticism. With the idea of survival in mind, it’s readily apparent the being susceptible to any kind of attack or injury is probably contradictive to the end goal. I argue that you aren’t truly living unless you show the world all of you, beautiful you. This includes the nasty bits and pieces of you that don’t inherently want to be cast bare under the tireless scrutiny of fellow man.

            
     This is nonsense, obviously. A castle that has visible flaws such as cracks in the outer wall or an unstable foundation is more likely to be sacked by the enemy, is it not? This is true, but man is not a fortress to be protected. Man is not designed to house impenetrable gates and vaults to safeguard his inner emotions and passions. The enemy may more easily access these treasures, but perhaps after allowing the “enemy” passage within your haven they will turn out to be allies. Perchance this apparent enemy is, in reality, a group of merchants bringing fine silks and linens to your keep.

            
      We speak of this nonsense again. The hordes of people outside the castle, your castle, are only out to rob you blind. They’re only out to take what you have by force. Enemies that want nothing more than watch your world burn. We ought to just barricade the gates and allow none passage to our realm. Then how do we grow? I speak not just in fictional kingdom metaphors, but in truthful individual realities. Only by allowing the rest of the world in, in both our made-up castle and our hearts, do we truly live. It is easy to survive; easy to exist, but to truly live is a different beast entirely.

           
     Without being exposed, without the willingness to be defenseless we cannot be authentic. An American poet May Sarton put it rather eloquently, “We have to dare to be ourselves, however freighting or strange that self may prove to be.” It is impossible to know who we truly are in life without being authentic. It is impossible to be truly authentic without the presence of vulnerability, without the lack of emotional safeguards and other preventions.

           
     Fallacy! Blasphemy! Heresy! If you allow every person to see your flaws you will most likely be labeled as a pariah. People will take advantage of you, use you up and spit you out. You will undoubtedly be taken for granted. You freely allow yourself to be used and abused. You open yourself to feel otherwise preventable pain and hardship. This is an unnecessary allowance that isn’t warranted to lead a full and long life.

          
     Rejection is an innate and always present fear for many of our species. The idea of rejection is forever persistent in our dealings with other people, as well as blaringly prevalent when we take personal inventory of ourselves. Our hopes and dreams, thoughts and actions, even gestures and God given genetics are vulnerable to rejection. Nothing is safe from rejection, nothing. However, rejection is not a bullet, not an unbeatable monster, not an unstoppable force. Overcoming rejection is absolutely the key to making the practice of vulnerability work.

            
     Facing and overcoming these demons is at the very core of what I’m alluding to. Without hardship, without challenge, we do not improve. Sitting alone inside our throne room, closed off to the rest of the hurtful world, we do not flourish. We do not develop ourselves or the world around us; we do not live. Without interaction, true meaningful interaction, we do not begin to fathom what it means to be alive. Without rejection we cannot grasp what it means to be one of the many vulnerable, brilliant, and beautiful souls thriving amongst the throng of life.

            
     Allowing other’s into your so-called “throne room” opens you up to assassination attempts. You are allowing spies to steel their place within your court; the chance of sabotage rises drastically. Would-be dissenters and mutineers can study your weaknesses and plan their attack. You are giving fuel to the enemy and hamstringing yourself for the inevitable battle ahead.

            
     “If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles,” wrote Sun Tzu, the philosopher and Chinese general. Yes, life can be viewed as a battle; it certainly isn’t always easy. You would be hard pressed to find a philosopher or deep thinking individual, let alone average person persuade you otherwise. This being said, without battles there are no victories. Without victories there exists no defeat. Defeat may indeed be inevitable, but only if your perception allows it.

           
     In opening yourself to possible enemies, in allowing yourself to be vulnerable, you also open yourself to unquantifiable depths of love and friendship. I can personally testify that I had not truly lived until I shed my stone-cold stoic demeanor and allowed people to see who I really am. No, you will not be able to cast yourself bare just by waking up one morning and deciding to do so, but that is the first step to take. 

You will be rejected. 
You will be outcast. 
You will be hurt and disgraced.

You will be loved, cherished, admired. 
You will show courage, leading the way for others to be vulnerable. 
You will test your mettle and find it superior. 
Most importantly, you will have lived life.

Blue? Writing About Nothing.

What does it mean to stand on the sideline? I do not know.

 Is it a noble pursuit to allow another player on this blue spinny sphere to take a glory in your stead?

I believe it is.

...but then what is glory anyway? Is it even worth working towards?

Glory, and the pursuit thereof, is for the shallow. Accolades, trophies, achievements, laurels, these don't matter. Then what does matter? What dictates and defines one man's idea of achievement over another? One soul's pursuit is another's pain.

I ramble.

This hypocritical writing and "deep" thinking is growing more pointless and tiresome it seems. Always asking questions, never providing any answers. It's nothing but some wanton mind spinning out of control in the late hours of the eventide.

This is only a practice in preoccupying my mind for just a moment. Staring at the ceiling with blank expression and only accompanied by the unrelenting barrage of thoughts, malicious and otherwise. Is this all just a practice in morbidly hilarious futility? Again, an answer I can not provide.

I focus on the blue LEDs of my keyboard. They're an easy and simple distraction of thought. An exercise in stretching my lexicon of color.

Azure, Navy, Sky, Indigo, Lapis Lazuli, Ultramarine, Neon, Cobalt, Cyan, Teal, Egyptian, Prussian, Cerulean, Something borrowed...

This color is sharply contrasted by the faint red hue of my alarm clock. It reads 12:38. I could list colors of red, but I'm bored of this exercise.

This is nothing but an effort in free writing. An attempt to empty the gray matter in my cranium. No point made, no wisdom gleamed. You've wasted your time here and for that I apologize.

However, you should try it sometime. Ink to page, so to speak.

Does it prevent the feeling of bleak isolation that comes from occupying a space alone? No. It's more akin to warming yourself with a flask of whiskey. It doesn't effect the cold in anyway, but it knows how it pretend like the best of thespians.

Thoughts on Confidence, 11/23/2013

I'm trying to wrap my brain around something that I can't really come to terms with. How is it that, in the span of a few days, I can be told from strangers that I should work in radio, asked out randomly by members of the fairer sex, and even be teased about for an amateur model photo shoot... but still can't cling to one iota self worth?

Long-winded questions aside, I just don't understand. Sure sure, we've certainly been through this familiar song and dance a few times before, but it just doesn't seem to resolve and go away.

Thinking through the various steps of why I think this and feel this way, still brings no edible knowledge fruit. Usually when one rationalized his/her fears, those fears vanish or subdue themselves in the face of plain and simple logic. I know the answer to 2 + 2 is indeed 4, but the math still doesn't add up. Does this make any sense?

There is no reason I should be this way. There is no reason I should be plagued by this constant wheezing wind of emotional turmoil and the distilled fear of dying with lack of an interesting story to pass on, let alone anyone that wants to hear it.

Upon reading these poorly crafted strings of words back, all I can seem to tell myself...

Suck it up you chump.

What is self-esteem anyway? Do the charismatic individuals you see walking in the world amongst you really even have charisma? I'm told constantly that I'm a very outgoing and charismatic person; that I have the means to be a politician or motivational speaker, but I can't for the life of me agree with any of this.

The truth? I'm just faking it. Constantly fabricating this wall around the nervous scared boy that I really feel I am. The whole conversation puts the idea of confidence to scrutiny. Is it courage to be completely scared out of your wits, but jump into the lion's den anyway? Should it be blamed on depression? Should it be blamed on anything at all?

I feel like I'm forcing myself to find these answers out on my own. For what good, I do not know. I desperately crave social interaction, social support, and the like. I just don't feel it's really solving anything to push these problems on someone else to help solve. Will I come out of the pit wearing a new lion fur loincloth or will I spend the last minutes of this crazy ride in the various damp confines of the pride's collective stomachs?

Time will tell I guess.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."

I don't give my consent, yet still judge myself lacking. Logic be damned.

On Your Lonesome

How do we cope with loneliness? Do you embrace it and try to defeat it by remaining alone or does winning the fight involve leaning on compatriots and peers? I'd like to hear of someone with the mental fortitude and steel resolve to overcome loneliness... alone.

I often attempt to best this beast by facing it head on. Is that even an option? Is it possible to stave off the hordes of negative thoughts and ideas when you have no camaraderie to rely on for moral support?

At one point I wholeheartedly thought so. The power of the human brain is an astonishingly amazing thing.

Part of my fragile psyche believed(s) that it is indeed possible, with enough self induced brainwashing, to trump the feeling of being alone and impossibly disconnected from the world and its inhabitants.

Sometimes, I believe that's why we seek out romantic relationships. I believe that, unless you're in the small minority of lucky individuals who doesn't need social interaction, each of us NEEDS at least one other living (non-fictional) person to bare your soul to.

Therein lies another prong of this tangent. Is it fair of me to ask another individual for help with my baggage? The manly man inside of me believes, to this second, that there are crosses for each of us to carry, alone. I think, I think that...I think...anyway, that it's not unfair to expect someone to hold the door for you while you tote around your big, proverbial, invisible cross.

If you're any half-way kind of decent, you'll open the door for someone with full hands. It's no different if the door is imaginary.. and the cargo is a big made-up lowercase T.

Then again, sometimes the act of surrounding yourself with support still does nothing to sate the feelings of emptiness and the vast void of space around you. Sometimes the dog robs me of my capability to connect with other individuals, regardless of how hard I try.

Always questions, few answers.

Back to the point, if there was ever one to be made. There is nothing wrong with accepting a little bit of help to deal with issues of the brain and heart, just don't use people as a crutch. You have to be able to stand on your own to provide a positive impact on the world.

I'd also like to talk about fabricated confidence sometime. Self-defeating thoughts that prevent me from asking a brilliant beautiful girl out, or facing a crowd of people... is this even depression or some other character flaw? Maybe tomorrow.