On Coming Back from a Come Down - A Review

Decisions, decisions.

Part of having a brain means you’re constantly analyzing everything. Coming up with idealistic (and occasionally [often {always}] worst-case) conclusions to any and all possible outcomes to any decision you make.

Star wipe to me, standing in a packed train, being shoved in all possible directions, as people push onto the A from the port-authority bus station. I’m looking from face to face, trying to find a tinge of sympathy among the commuters, the tourists, the wayward.

There’s none.

There’s just the bleeding internal dialogue that stems from the loneliness that can only come when you’re surrounded by strangers.

Flanked by a door and tapping my foot to the invisible instruments in my head I force a twisted look on my face. My uncomfortability is quickly replacing itself with paranoia.

I have fixes for this. Like I have fixes for everything. But when the problem is me, I tend to prescribe reactively and never proactively.

So I slip my glasses off and fold them into my pocket.

I swap my playlist from Oberst to Death Cab. From the introspective to the familiar. Resetting the score and tone of my remaining sardonic 15 minutes packed in a tin.

Somewhat blind and mostly out of my head, I take deep breaths and remember what its all for. And that’s good enough to level any ambiguity pertaining to life, liberty, and what I guess to be one of many pursuits of ultimate happiness.

I chase a lot in life. Most of what I spend my time running after are answers. But so often in this cliche quest, I end up finding that I spent too little time considering the parameters of what it is I'm searching for.

In essence, what I'm saying is I work too hard to find answers, but spend too little time looking for the right question.

This isn't a new revelation. In fact it’s the subject of like… eight blogs. It's just something I find myself circling my way back to every time I think I'm ready to go out and figure out the answers to all the wild questions in my head.

But when my perspective is settled, and I'm properly motivated, and my potential is loosed, like a vagrant tetherball, I begin to find slack in the tangled Monkey's fist.

And while I can, I pull and pull. And with loose knots I find the source of those honeyed-eyes and gold-coined-phrases and nothing's whispered too sweet.

But now, while turning from those drachmas and cheer, and seeing the walls and tunnels outside Hades. I pull the shoulder strap of my backpack and turn my confidence into my steps as I walk up the steep hill, turning my hat as I please.

I step through grief like I do the many doors leading to my apartment. Regret matched with denial with anger with bargaining with depression. Acceptance is twisting the second key in the lock and letting the hinges swing free. Putting me inside and safe again. The feelings bleed out of me, and I’m sitting in the hallway with a dog on my lap feeling peacefully aware of how sometimes things are so easy they’re hard to fathom.

And sometimes things are so hard they’re easy to beat.

But for now, there's nothing. Except warm memories and that constant left-of-center burning it's gross hope in my chest.

I think I'm too tired to keep at it. But, the picture's clear.

Things are hard, but that's good and I'm good, and that's great.

The end.

Have a great week.