The one strand of tenuous consistency I had was severed three days ago. A large coach bus drove the three hundred thirty-six miles it took to snap it.
This was the lowest moment in an already low week, and the second Thursday in a row which I spent wallowing in my own self-pity.
I took no solace in friends.
There is a great tendency in the consolation process amongst friends to push the griever in question towards “happy” or “fun” things, usually in an attempt to make said griever “forget” their grievances, if only temporarily.
I have no interest in such things.
I do not want “happy” or “fun”, as these are adjectives used to described short-lived experiences designed to cause one to merely avoid their problems entirely. Evasion is not a solution to such a problem.
I want “meaningful.”
“Meaningful” in this context implies an attempt to construct a new thread to replace the gap caused by the destruction of the previous one. This is precisely what I need at this moment. I need to develop a connection that fills the void of consistency which left with that bus.
So far, things are not working in my favor.
Let’s look at what I have done since Thursday:
Listened to sad songs
Ate ice cream
Now, some of those things were “fun”, some were “happy”, and some were neither, but not one of them was “meaningful” according to my previously listed definition. In other words, I am not moving successfully towards anything which I would deem a positive direction.
Perhaps I’m the one at fault here. Maybe I don’t actually know at all what I want. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s been the case.
But suppose that’s not true.
Suppose it’s you (a word which here refers to both “you”, the reader, as well as “you”, the person to whom this ambiguous usage implies I’m directly referring to. I’m leaving it open for interpretation as vagueness is a new hat for me to try on, given my typically direct and frank nature).
Let’s take this as fact and run with it for a moment.
You want me to be happy. That much is obvious, and I’m quite appreciative of this. But wanting does not make it so. My happiness relies too much on your actions at the present moment for that to be the case.
I want you to be happy, as well, but it often seems that my desire for both self-satisfaction and your happiness may be at odds with one another.
If this is true, I’m beginning to hate truth.
With lies I can bury myself in a false sense of comfortability, a realm of fiction more closely related to the books I bury my face in than the world which I exist in.
I’ve been liking those books more and more lately.
With truth, however, I’m forced to confront the possibility that things may not work out precisely how I would like. This is an obvious truth that the universe constantly makes clear, and one which I thought I had grown quite alright with.
This has proven to be false (another lie), however.
I would really like things to work out for me.
Just once would be nice.
That fucking bus just hurt too much to let my greatest hope for “meaningful” fall apart so rapidly.