And I got no place but home to go, got ben folds on my radio right now...
oooohhh. This was written way back in late November. I recovered it in a notepad document compilation of all the failed attempts at proper entries and rough undeveloped/underdeveloped thoughts that I never took the liberty of expanding on, that I've accumulated, and thought.. you know what? This is a little premature (not to mention an atrocity of grammatically awkward half-thoughts) but is almost worthy of online publication. It's kind of a moderately interesting read, if you have the patience for these kinds of things. Enjoy!
One night,
....I freaked out. Exiting the subway station, I surrendered to my inclination to channel all feelings of frustration, indignation, and void that that night produced into a disruptive eruption of vocal fury. It was the dead of night, and I was traipsing around out in the public place of all public places -- the street -- as if intoxicated with some foreign substance (I wasn't), "singing" in an ambiguous off-key slur as loud as the volume capacity of my voice would permit. I was exhibiting the effects of delirium-induced inebriation. I was unrestricted, to do whatever it was that suited my fancy, by the constraints of my natural obligations to regulate my own behavior along the guidelines of what under ordinary circumstances would be generally considered socially acceptable behavior... (These were not ordinary circumstances, you see. I WILL HAVE A MINOR BREAK DOWN WHENEVER I DAMN WELL PLEASE, THANK YOU! And if it happens to come at 3am while I'm wandering the streets purposelessly, then so be it.) I freed myself from this loathsome responsibility (to be reasonably civil and kept in check at all times), made a conscious decision that for the next half hour -- or however long it was my vocal cords could stand to endure the abuse I subjected it to that night -- that restraint and the universal laws of harmonious co-existence with others in a civilized society would not apply to me. I was uninhibited, I was RAMPANT. And it was empowering. It was LIBERATING!
If you're a light sleeper living anywhere along the route between the 7th ave. F station and my living quarters, I probably woke you with my piteous wailing. Oh, don't worry, it was a good song. I should've seen me. I was probably quite a spectacle. I lose my composure frequently, but any observable differences in disposition are subtle... I never really LOSE MY COMPOSURE -- at least, not quite the way I did that night.
There was no one around on the subway, save for a few peculiar late night stragglers, but no one interesting. Oh, the familiar feeling of isolation. I hadn't spoken to a soul that entire night -- at least, I hadn't engaged in any substantially stimulating conversation with a soul that entire night. Which was unfortunate. Because there were few times in my life when I had been in greater need of a confidant. I had an appealing notion in my mind of wasting away this late hour in the company of anything with a pulse, in some restaurant eating greasy comfort food and fuming across the table about my grievances concerning everything in my life that's going wrong (everything in my life). There was a secret unspoken plea in my mind: Speak to me. Come on. Someone. Restore my unconditional optimism and boundless undying faith in the natural bond of indiscriminate camaraderie existing between people -- strangers -- and in loneliness's affinity for company.
DAMN IT, I wanted to SPEAK to someone -- on the same frequency and level of intellectual sophistication -- willing to LISTEN and, perhaps, REPSOND intelligently. (Oh, I have a shrink. But she is of little assistance to me.) ANYBODY. I had volumes to say, and no one to say it to, so what would you have proposed I had done in the name of retaining my sanity? I felt so helpless to adjust any aspect of my life to my benefit. At the time I was feeling particularly like hope failed me. I was mentally isolated (physically isolated too, I'm sure, but that's not important) and ill-at-ease, reluctant to go home to seek refuge in sleep. Sleep would not remedy any of my psychological ailments, bring any peace to my mind, or offer promise of any beacon of hope. I know it's in my nature to be sedate, but then I.... finally found all my courage to let it all go. (Coincidentally, this is a lyrical reference, yes, but disregard, because it's insignificant to the story)
I swear to you, I'm not resilient, not in the least. I'm probably the least resilient person you know. I'd be disgracing resilience if I dared call myself that. I'm just placid and... not easy of emoting. Whatever amount of composure there is in my disposition, well, there is more psychological unrest and distress that I keep to the confines of my unspoken thoughts. I'm a lot less stoic than I'll ever let you in on.
Once, several years back, my guidance counselor at school (guidance counselors have a way of finding out everything. They meddle. They worry. They call members of your immediate family.) said to me, in reference to the supposed "grief" I was caused, by my sister's death (she was four and I, a preteen), "You conceal it well."
I didn't have anything to conceal. At least, nothing for which my sister's death was to blame. I was unphased by it. That is not to say I was well and dandy, only that this infinite dissatisfaction I had with my life originated in other sources. Her conclusion was accurate, even if the premise by way of which she arrived at this deduction was off. "You conceal it well." I knew I did. I know I do. I show no detectable signs of emotional wear, but I feel... like I could die. Consistently.
By god, nothing out of the ordinary had even happened to have offended me so and invoked such feelings of hopelessness, during the course of the previous couple of hours -- but I felt like the world had forsaken me, like it had been forsaking me all along, and I had only pretended to have come to terms with myself and that my apparent nonchalance was a fallacy. But it was. (I don't know about the being forsaken by the world thing, though.) I only diligently worked at (and was successful in) keeping my mouth shut, tolerating it, and trying to be pleasant, before then... I was displeased with my life, its course of direction, its utter lack of direction. I do admit my reaction was just a smidgen dramatic, especially considering I wasn't really reacting to anything in particular at all.. Oh, how little it takes to make or break you! (props if you know which book this quote was lifted directly out of... because I don't even know.) I certainly didn't "conceal it" very well that night. But no matter; no one bore witness to it anyway, it was as if it had never happened at all -- it was only of any significance (enormous significance, at this) to me. I am only of any significance to me. Hell, I could've went on playing banshee long into the waning night hours until reassuring darkness yielded to garish morning daylight at dawn or my voice gave out, whichever came first, and still have made no profounder impact on the world, the course of history, on anyone, than perhaps disturbing some neighbor of mine's sleep to the extremity of stirring. So what was the reasoning behind it? Behind doing things that never happened, or at least in essence may as well have never happened? (Man, why can't it ever be like this when I'm committing murder or arsen?) A moment lapsed wherein there was no element of rationality present in my thought process. I guess that's why they call it freaking out. I just pranced about between the sidewalk and the middle of the street, despairing over hardly anything and screaming "I wanna be someone to believe, to believe, to believe...."
By this point in the night, my mind was elsewhere, so numbed by desparation that I hardly felt the biting cold. I felt it in my lungs every time I took in breaths of air, though. Resistant to the idea of going home (still), I sat on sidewalk until I felt the threat of daylight's presence lingering dauntingly near -- although not yet visible, it loomed ahead of me, just behind the horizon. So I scampered home to hide from the garish daylight, thinking, "hmm. maybe if I go to sleep my problems will dissolve and tomorrow will be alright. here's hoping!"
Well. Now there's one thing I can scratch off my list of things to do before I die: singing songs about self-loathing and hopelessness in the middle of the street, at the surrounding buildings and sky at ungodly hours of the day on a spontaneous whim. What an achievement. I should get a gold star. Or two. (Or one of those scented stickers with a cartoon grape and "grape going!" on them that you get in first grade for every time you draw a tree or a cat or a zoo in your notebook.) I feel so fuckin' accomplished.
(Hey... mad props -- perhaps even a gold star -- if you know which song this is, that I've made so many in-passing references to in the last hundred paragraphs but have neglected to name.)
