Saturday, May 12, 2007
this. (nostalgia, unfurrled.)
i have a friend. and that friend writes blogs. and on the occasion that i read that friend's blogs, i am immersed in a feeling. i've been trying to pin down, name, define that feeling for some time now. envy? pity? jealousy? disgust? sadness? nostalgia? exclusion? and none of these are it because it is all of these and much more and not necessarily a negative feeling at all. it is a feeling that gives rise to other negatives, but in itself does not have that intrinsic value. and tonight, just now, i think i've put together what that feeling is, or at least how to explain it.
i read these blogs and i think, this is the life that i am no longer living.
this is the life that i abandoned or moved past or just moved through, one full of beauty and pain and intensity and long nights. but not the kind of nights that i have now; the ones where misery was tangible and necessary and juicy and fulfilling, bright sweet violet plums that made pain consoling. this is the life that clung to my heels in an old southern city like a shadow, a ghost of my former self that i could not rid myself of but to leave it behind. this is the life i had before the "reality" of rent, health insurance, taxes, and a complete lack of any sort of safety net encroached upon my emotional spectrum. the life i led before i was forced to be "responsible", "adult", "old", "boring". the life that i could lead before i tipped over that edge, the dividing line between wanting roommates and wanting to be alone, between a night at the bar and a night reading a book, between hysteria and mere melancholy. this is the life that i miss so desperately for its passion, but was miserable living. but miss it i do, oh so much, and i wish that i could be transported into that mind, live in those moments when i want to paint or write or obsess over a lover. but it is a consuming mindset; there is no back and forth, in and out. for me it was a trap, because for all that passion i was too weighed down to use it. now the intensity of misery is gone, and with it the intensity of passion and the crazy times and the stories.
but i have lived that life, and i have my stories nice and neat and stacked in a box in the closet, and the truth is that it never made me happy. i have a suspicion that it never makes anyone happy; that it just becomes comfortable, and that the drama compels itself forward. but would i sit late at night, listening to my refrigerator and the cars int he street and the ticking of my clocks writing this were there not a part of me that still aches for that light? perhaps i will not justify the question with an answer.