“Only in man does man know himself; life alone teaches each one what he is.” – ‘Tasso’, Goethe
I suppose deep down I know. That sinking feeling that comes with the reality that you have pushed that one button once too many times and the whole operations you have grown to rely on has completely shut down. Most of me understands the mechanics that have caused this. The other portion of me is fighting to fix or salvage whatever can be fixed or salvaged. Yeah, Bridget has given me the boot.
I admit that the decision is justly configured and composed of my own challenging ways. A bit too much to drink on nights when she’d rather not sleep with a drunk. Coupled with all the other fascinating developments that any relationship, especially a live in one, can accrue. My greatest concern here is that I do not feel enough time was given. Some may think different, but none but she and I were in the relationship to be able to score the good against the bad. And sure, the scars that we will leave on each others appreciation of the ideal of coupling, especially Black coupling, have already begun to show them Selves to others.
Also, I do not want to be homeless again. There is nothing that one can say or do usually to convince a person against what they ultimately consider as an escape plan. Lack of control is often perceived in the same manner that being controlled is. And most of us at a certain age desire a life in which all the pieces fit according to our plans, and that which doesn’t, or that which does not and also does not present us with a force play of some sort, tends to find it Self on the out and outs. And even with the apprehensions that come with living without a home, I do not feel half the fear there as I do in the place where her and I lose our friendship and the visions for a better world that only she and I share.
And I do not feel like wording this as directly as I have thusly. Not only because I wish to shun the condescending slurs, the naysaying smirk, and the false sagacious advice of those projecting their own hidden vices. Including with that list is my desire to avoid placing my lifeline on the altar to be sacrificed once again for a public that only reaches out when it is either too late or just socially acceptable. And really, I am not looking for sympathy. I’m just expressing my Self as a means to release the residue of the strain that persists in my emotional cavity. And while I glare at Twitter pages with a growing pang in the back of my neck everytime I read what translates to me as,”Hey guys! I’m free again! Owl’s gone!”, I do not find it in my heart to continue to distribute the more personal aspects of my life in such a manner. For whatever that is worth.
As much as I hope to rectify and rekindle what it is that has been lost between she and I, I also have to be prepared to tackle that road again. I have to be prepared to the answer the questions of the officious when they hear the mentions of my name that are not exactly mentions of my name. And if such an appeal cannot be found between she and I, then I believe that my best efforts should be rendered in the dark, away from public scrutiny, in a manner that allows me to heal best.
When you step into someone’s life in the manner that I have, it can be excrutiatingly painful to step outside of that. When you are placed in the womb of a poet’s lifeline, not the digital, but the actual one; when you are buried in that person’s most painful memories and their most heartfelt laughs, it can be a traumatic experience to pull your Self from knowing you are casting your Self back to the feet of swine.
so, I was listening to her read a poem to her mother. Now, her mother is one of those old school educated women who came of age back when people had to bleed and be spit on to get a proper education. The poem was one of those vulnerable pieces that today’s artistic community applauds and deems discussion worthy. Her mother was not so impressed by the self assesments presented in the piece. And, that was a lesson for me as well as she.
I, too, believed in a world where my tears could be brought to market and traded at a fair price. I, too, believed in a world that was at least one-eighteenth altruistic. I, too, believed that people cared at some level beyond a trade off or an advancement of some kind. I no longer believe that. I now believe that people, most if not all,(but I am willing to sacrifice my image as omniscient for a more realistic, if even mistaken, image as cynical) are looking for something, a tangible or a nod of power, in exchange for their attention or simply for free. And I am completely alright with that outlook and reality if it so be.
What I am not alright with is this need to wait for credibility, validation, and respect from a world such as this. I cannot find it within my Self any longer to disparage my attributes on the public square of social media simply because my vices and indulgences are not as popular as men felating and women wanting to fornicate with humanity while bragging about how lonely that can be. I do not find it necessary to be ashamed of being me in a society that would have me be ashamed of being me. Nor do I find this appalling game we play as adults of climb the ladder, or pay dues, amusing or even practical for my own Self.
What exactly is the validation of fools that scamper to be acknowledged by those that would no quicker hug them than urinate on their belief that being urinated on is some how sexually pleasing?
What is it that makes it difficult or unappreciated to accept a person stating that they do not want to be weak, or vulnerable? And why must introspection always read or sound like weakness or vulnerability?
For those that feel the need to express a thought that couldn’t possibly have originated in my thinking, please feel free. But, deep down I know.
“…he fights for us.” _ B. Sharise Moore