A wrecking ball… is something else entirely.

It’s come to this: I sit with a glass of red, my emotions in a rage.

Love. Crippled hope. Fear. Futility. Exhaustion. Defeat.

A daisy chain of disquiet. Tumultuous seas confined to the teacup that is my chest cavity. A kaleidoscopic sideshow only I am privy to. Yep, that about covers it. It’s the first emotion which inspires all others, ironically. It breeds like a Freudian rabbit, springing from one to another. Singular pain is multiplied. Worry becomes fact. Fear becomes a fait accompli. Or is it the fear that it isn’t fear, but knowledge of what is to follow?

Riddle me that, ubiquitous joker.

Either way. It feels just shy of impossible to live within my own skin today.

Ad and in nauseum, I have marched behind each minute, magic marker in hand, attempting to erase the wake each thought awakened. There were too many. They piled upon each other and now, I can only wait for the day to end and bring with the next a differing doctrine. Til then, they have my heart in a death grip. And, among all other fears is this: the grip prevails because of the truth it holds.

Decryption: I think I might love him. Having only ever been enamoured and not en love, I aint sure. But I feel sure. Which inspires panic in turn. For with that uncertain knowledge is this certain one: he’s unattainable. And, following that fucken rabbit down the warren hole, comes this conclusion: I think I’m in a tragedy.

As per the dustily droll definition of Dustin’s Hoffman in Stranger Than Fiction:

The last thing to determine conclusively is whether you are in a comedy or a tragedy. To quote Italo Calvino, ‘the ultimate meaning to which all stories refer has two faces: the continuity of life, the inevitability of death.’

Tragedy, you die. Comedy, you get hitched.

Ipso fuckto: tragedy. Or tradge, as my brother would say.

Which is not to say that I will die, my friends. Moreso, it’s the destination of an exhaustive journey which dies and leaves me perennially trekking. In vain. Towards what? Perversity? Exhaustion? Fucked if I know. So. At an impasse. I share my tumult with you.

And a new thought. When grappling with such a mood, I feel fresh sympathy for those who struggle with drug or alcohol addictions. What must it be like to have the option to escape such thoughts for a time; or years, should the addiction strike you? Irresistible, I imagine.

I’ve never had that option open to me, though I can’t say why. Luck, at a guess. Where all emotions are absorbed into my bloodstream with a readiness which breeds failure and fortitude in equal measure, drugs have nil effect. So, I’ve been left with philosophy and film to quiet my hurting heart; and here is where you find me.

With a storm that seas and besieges me, larger than my little boat of axioms, philosophy or rebuttals is ready for; but with a silver lining of sobriety in which to greet it.

Published by the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

13 thoughts on “A wrecking ball… is something else entirely.

  1. Well, I don’t know where you are now, since I have been missing from the blogosphere for a while, but I hope things have improved.

    Online is the way to go for brain-partners.

    Anyway, keep writing for crying out loud! You’re a genius. Only a matter of time before someone sees it.

  2. a) I want Love Kevlar. Can u supply link please.
    b) Ipso fuckto. This phrase has been purloined. I shall credit you only until it is so absorbed into my persona that I forget from whence it came.
    c) Can you quit making me tear up.
    d) It’s lust. Not love. (Easily mistaken and just as tricksy.) Therefore it is getoverable.
    e)Tumult shared is tumult shared. Ignore anyone who mentions any platitude with the word ‘halved’ in it. In my experience it’s utter tripe.
    f) There is no f

    1. f) What she said.

      e) Except… I have too much fuckin’ LK. Nothing gets through anymore. (I admit, it is warm and cozy inside all the Amour Armor.) How do you share that shit? For sale. Cheap!

      g) Greek tragicomedy (with horrorshow and slapstick elements) written by Wes Craven and directed by David Lynch. Such is the chocolate-covered, raisin-filled turd we call life. We of your Chorus sing your praises and laments.

      xyz) What comes after ‘W’, which stands for Wuc, and that rhymes with luck!

  3. Tweak that love by changing your need into pure giving to him. You are both in the world, and that’s a plus. It ain’t easy. But you’re special enough to do it. And say when feeling hopeless, Bugger, bugger, bugger. The G on the tongue gives a feeling of power.

      1. Ah, but girlfriends die from all sorts of, um, natural causes… the occasional naturally falling piano or office safe, for example. I understand naturally occurring wolverines and/or deadly snakes (“Snakes on a Flame”?) can also be a problem…

  4. Ah Wuc…I’m feeling your pain. El problemo: you don’t have any Love Kevlar do ya? This is a naturally occurring substance that builds up gradually, when you’ve been chewed up and spat out a few times. You need to have loved and lost, even loved and won, before you have the necessary flak to throw out and confuse the emotions that hurtle your way through love unrequited. Raw like sushi. Wuc and cover …wait for the storm to pass.

    1. Thanks Kevmoore. Your explanation is strangely comforting – it makes much sense! Love kevlar, emphasis on the Kev. Wuc and cover, emphasis on the wucs. Too true, prescient pal. Too true. And most sincerest of fist bumps.

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